


In the Meanwhile

by Ballades



Series: Questionable Chemistry [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Bonus Content, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Lyrium Addiction, Wall Sex, best library in thedas, no really i did actually write fluff, surprising sexual tension - Freeform, templar/mage relationship critical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 30,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deleted scenes and bonus content from <i>In Vigils</i>, <i>Eveningwear</i>, <i>Anacrusis</i> and <i>Bloodsong</i> until I find a place for the side stories.</p><p>Latest chapter is the first draft of <i>Anacrusis</i> 24.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Letters

**Author's Note:**

> From chapter 8 of In Vigils:
>
>> She begins to ask him for little favors. _If you could please give Varric the enclosed envelope, I would be grateful,_ she writes. _I have a funny story for Sera, do you think you could read it to her? It involves butts, lots of butts. And sand in the butts._ Sera falls off her bed laughing when she hears, and immediately makes Cullen get pen and paper so that she can scratch out a reply, squinting and swearing as she writes.

“Sera?”

“Eh?” Sera turns from where she’s contemplating nothing, her hand on her chin. “Ooh, hello Cullen-wullen.”

“Maker’s breath, Sera, my name is Cullen, no extra rhymes.”

“Commander No-Pants then? Or Cully-wully? Is that what she calls you? When you’re _places_?” And because she does it so well, Sera leers.

“I haven’t been places in _months_ ,” Cullen snaps back reflexively, then facepalms, the papers in his hand crinkling at the contact. Maker _take_ the girl. How did Sera manage to frustrate him _and_ make him say regrettable things within the first thirty seconds of a conversation?

Sera throws herself backwards onto her bed and cackles, just cackles, her laughter bubbling out of her like a sudden spring of fresh water. Despite himself Cullen has to smile, though he hides it behind Aeveth’s letter. Sera has that kind of laugh, an infectious laugh, a laugh so ridiculous that one has to laugh at it, as well as along with it.

He clears his throat, forces his face back into seriousness. “Sera, I came to see you because I have a letter for you from Aeveth.”

Sera rolls up into a sitting position, makes grabby motions with her hands. Cullen steps back, keeping the papers out of reach. “She requested that I read this to you, and tell you that it’s a funny story involving, ah… backsides.”

“Can’t say it?” Sera snickers. “Butts? Butts butts butts. Butts.” She snickers again. “Well Commander No-Pants, let’s have a go. Chop chop.”

Cullen looks down at the papers, starts reading. “Sera, I thought of you the other day while we were fighting some Venatori out in the desert. We were hunting down one of the leaders - you can call him Lord Pompous, or Pomp-ass… Maker, what am I reading?” He shuffles through the pages, eyes skimming over Aeveth’s neat writing.

Sera huffs at him. “You can’t just _stop_ in the middle of a story, get on with it! What happened? Really, I thought you had something, with that one joke you tell and all, but you read like shite.”

He levels a stare at her. She crosses her arms and stares back, then sticks out her tongue. Cullen draws in an even breath, goes back to the first page, and keeps reading, his voice deadpan. “You can actually just call him Lord Pomp-ass-over-teakettle, because after Vivienne dropped a dispel on him so hard as to flatten him and everyone around, Thom charged in before he could stand and smashed him in the face with his shield. There were butts everywhere in the sand.” Cullen frowns, turns to the next page. “I’m not seeing how this is funny.”

Sera in the meanwhile, is laughing, laughing so hard that she’s curled into a ball, rolling around on her bed, slapping the covers. She laughs so much that she overshoots, falling to the floor with a thump, legs splaying out like an overturned spider. “Butts!” she howls, “flying butts! Flying butts all at the same time in the sand! Like a dance of sand and butts! Oh, I hope she nicked their knickers next!”

Cullen continues. There is no knicker-nicking. “And when we turned Lord Magicky Pomp-ass over to strip him and look for his effects, we saw that Thom had shield-slammed him so hard that he had sand up his butt all the way up to his arseh - _Andraste’s flaming sword_ , what is this nonsense? This isn’t a story!”

Sera fairly cries with laughter then, lies on the floor and shakes with it. “Your _face!"_ she manages. “Your _face!_ Cully-wully can’t say ‘arsehole,’ can he? Too... “ She takes a deep breath, collapses into mirth again. “Too buttoned up and ‘oh, I’m so serious, look at my seriousness I’m being so serious,’ it’s the best. She’s the best, she is.” She catches her breath finally, and Cullen has the distinct impression that Aeveth has pranked _him_ , somehow. “I need to write her, Cully-wully. I want you to fetch me paper and something to draw with.”

“Can’t you get it yourself? I have work to do.” Cullen glowers.

“Nope, can’t do that, can’t be the only other one sending her letters, what would the little people think? Only Commander No-Pants can send her letters, so I’ll write one yeah, and you just stick it in with all the other things you write and wish you could stick in her.” There’s that leer again.

“Maker’s _breath_ , Sera, all right, I’ll get you your implements, just wait here.” Cullen stomps off, mortified at how closely Sera is telling the truth. He hopes no one else has heard her.

“I’ll be here, Cully-wully!” Her voice rings out, catches him halfway down the stairs.

Cullen grinds his teeth. “My name is _Cullen_ ,” he mutters to himself, and tries to ignore how sulky he sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments will make me love you forever.


	2. In the Stores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen comes face-to-face with a room full of lyrium, and it is like a heavenly chorus in his head, drowning everything out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place between chapters 12 and 13 of In Vigils.

The storage cellars underneath Skyhold are gargantuan, a labyrinthine stone maze of arches and patchwork masonry and crumbled dead ends. It’s cold down in the depths of the mountain, perpetually cold, dark with an icy dryness that makes it perfect for keeping the enormous reserves of food needed to run an operation like the Inquisition.

It’s also perfect for getting lost in, and Cullen hopes that he won’t as he descends further into the twisting halls and surprising turns. Skyhold is _old_ , old and not fully mapped out, and nowhere is it more apparent than here, where Cullen can almost smell the passage of time. The stores are dry, yes, but they have the scent of yellowed paper and stone long fallen into dust; they have that certain musty, aged odor, the one that accompanies the reverent hush of ancient things revealed.

Aeveth is somewhere here, somewhere in these vaulted halls that resemble catacombs in places. As Cullen walks he thinks it wouldn’t be surprising to find a skull or part of a skeleton moldering away, but his torch illuminates nothing but clean-swept floors, hallways branching off other hallways, and doorless rooms with shelves built floor to ceiling. There is no identification system that Cullen can see, no way of telling what is where, but he’s sure there has to be a catalog of some sort, otherwise Aeveth wouldn’t be down in the cellars doing inventory.

Of all things, inventory. Cullen delegates tasks: as Knight-Captain, then Commander, he knows acutely how impossible it would be to perform his duties without having others to carry out his orders. Aeveth though, she is the opposite. She finds little jobs to do here and there, does them cheerfully even, happy to be just another little cog in the great whirring machine of the Inquisition. She courts normalcy like a suitor would a potential bride, woos mundanity with a dogged determination. Cullen knows it’s because the title of Inquisitor weighs heavily on her, and that completing small tasks is her way of keeping in touch with herself, but perhaps the quartermaster could have given her something less tedious than sitting underground, counting potatoes or sacks of grain.

Ahead, Cullen spies a rhombus of light cutting into the shadows of the hallway. He approaches, slides his torch into an empty wall sconce, and peers into the room. She is there, kneeling on the floor, one hand holding a board, the other a quill. She’s dressed warmly, a plain gray hooded cloak pooling behind her, and she’s holding a partially-eaten apple in her mouth.

Cullen purposely scuffs his bootheel against the floor to alert her of his presence. Her head turns, eyes widening in surprise as she sees him. “Cullen?” she asks around the apple. She sets the quill down, takes hold of the apple, and completes her bite, the crisp, crunching sound shockingly loud. She chews, swallows. “Did the quartermaster make you run errands for him too?”

“No,” he replies. “But it seems I have a gift for finding you when no one else can.” It’s true; Cullen is _always_ finding her. Funny how he never finds her in his bed, though. What a useless talent.

“Some gift.” Aeveth smiles at him, picks up the discarded quill with her ring finger and pinky, and stands. “Did you need me for something?”

 _Certainly not for inventory,_ Cullen thinks. He says instead, “The latest missive from Enchanter Rhys and Ser Evangeline has arrived. For your eyes only, I believe.”

“That’s it?” Aeveth frowns. “Well then, hand it over.”

Cullen smiles ruefully. “I’m afraid I can’t. It’s been sent up to your quarters.”

Aeveth’s expression becomes one of alarm. Her breath hisses through her teeth.

“What? What is it?” Her reaction is unexpected, to say the least. “Should we have opened it?”

He can see her reining herself back in, regaining her composure. “No,” she says softly, then louder, “No. Rhys was seeking out mage caches, and he may have sent me something...volatile.”

She’s lying. Cullen knows she’s lying, which is not normal for her, she who can smoothly insert herself into almost any conversation, play the Grand Game as easily as she conjures fire. Cullen is suspicious now; she has never had to lie to him before. Or, if she has, he’s never caught her in it.

The fact that Aeveth is slipping is, in some ways, more troubling to him than the possibility that she has lied to him in the past, and the knowledge that she is lying to him right now.

Aeveth sighs and looks at her apple in the manner of one who no longer has an appetite. Cullen almost takes it from her, but stops himself. “I’m about done here,” she says, turning away, and now she sounds tired, so tired. Cullen can’t make heads or tails of her shifting moods; it’s another worrisome thing. “I just need to look in on the dried herb stores. It won’t take long.”

She leaves the room, slipping past him, her cloak brushing against his leg. The torch she leaves behind, creating instead a soft ball of light that hovers in front of her shoulder. “Did you have glow-lamps in the Circle?” she asks him suddenly.

It has been a long time since he had any positive or neutral thoughts about Kinloch Hold. Cullen follows her as she strides briskly down the hall, thinking. “Not that I can recall,” he tells her.

“What I would give for some right now,” she mutters. She keeps walking for another fifty paces or so. Cullen glances over his shoulder to check on the torch, still burning brightly. “Ah, here it is.”

Aeveth stops in front of a room with a thick wooden door. Before she opens it, she grabs the bottom edge of her cloak, pulls it up, sets her apple in it, and ties it off. “I might need your help,” she says to him with a smile. “The door latch here is in dire need of some grease, but I never remember to bring any.” Cullen gives her a look when he hears her light tone of voice. Is she...flirting with him? Maker’s breath, she is all over the place. 

“Luckily for me,” Aeveth continues, “this time I have my big, strong Commander to help.”

He would reply, but there’s something - a melody he’s heard before - he tilts his head to the side, listening. 

Cullen freezes, his mouth going dry. Singing, there’s singing.

“Cullen?”

He ignores her. What has started as one pure voice, the single voice he’s been used to hearing from the philter, has become two. As he stands there, two voices become three, then four and five, and soon Cullen has lost track of how many there are. His feet move, unbidden; he is walking now, floating almost, the voices loud in his head. They are a chorus, a divine choir, a magical harmony that is taking over his mind, calling to him, enticing him near. _Relief_ , the voices sing, _power, bliss._ The lyrium hums; it croons, sings holy paeans, serenades him sweetly.

Before he knows it, he is standing in the doorway of a room, the door wide open, his face bathed in the comforting, familiar luminescence of lyrium.

 _The lyrium stores,_ says a tiny voice. _Look at it all._

There is, in short, a lot of it. Blue bottles line the deep shelves, more bottles than a Templar could ever use in his entire life. The whole room is suffused in blue light, glowing from floor to high ceiling, and Cullen feels as if he is surrounded by sound, each and every voice in each and every bottle a siren holding her hands out to him, inescapable. Eyes wide, Cullen braces himself against the doorframe, half-sagging as he weathers the onslaught. He hasn’t had any in so long, _so long_ , he could have just a little. One bottle, half of one even, so he can have liquid blue music in his veins one last time, so he can feel more alive than ever. He’d proven himself, hadn’t he? He’d shown that the addiction could be broken. Just one philter, and he can take the next step, demonstrate immunity. He has control over it now.

But first he needs to take it.

“Cullen!”

Aeveth sounds so far away, but she’s right next to him, her fingers gripping his. “Cullen!” she shouts, but it’s hard to drown out the din of the lyrium, and her voice is so ugly and harsh compared to it. “Cullen!” she shouts again. “Fight it, Cullen!”

He says nothing, keeps staring at the shimmering, lively light of the lyrium. Just one. The effects can stay in the blood for weeks. All he needs is one.

Hands seize his head roughly. Aeveth pulls him down, forces him to look at her. She’s saying something but he can barely hear her; he doesn’t want to listen, he’d rather drown in the azure beauty of lyrium. Her eyes lock onto his, and she is so close, her forehead is touching his, and he can see the smoothness of her lips and the fine eyelashes on her bottom eyelids. Cullen trembles with the strain - he should fight it, that’s what Aeveth just said, that’s what he wants - but it’s so hard when all the lyrium he could ever use is mere feet from him.

“Focus, Cullen,” Aeveth is saying, over and over. He tries to sharpen his hearing, force out the lyrium. “Focus. Listen to me, come away from it. You do not need it.” Her voice is low and controlled, calm, but her eyes, her _eyes_ , they’re big and brown and so worried, full of concern. “Cullen, you’re better than this.” 

_Am I?_ he thinks.

“Fight it, focus on my words. You are _better than this._ I believe in you, Cullen, leave it, come with me.” Aeveth’s grip on his head tightens; he lifts a hand, places it over hers. “Come with me,” she exhorts him again. “I cannot lose you to this, Cullen, I _can’t_ , so you come with me now, let’s leave. Let’s _go_.”

He’s still shaking when he nods once. For Aeveth, he’ll try. For her, always, and no one else.

She takes him by both hands and begins leading him, little by little, down the hall. Bit by bit, infinitesimally, the singing diminishes, grows fainter. Aeveth is walking backwards, her eyes still on his, and Cullen holds onto that gaze, focuses on her, shuts the lyrium out. He doesn’t need it, hasn’t needed it, is better without it, would rather have her and not it; _Maker_ , he would rather have raven hair and those kissable lips and her desire to do inventory just to prove a point. He would rather have a life in the Inquisition and memories to call his own and the lucidity to recall them. He would rather have nights in the tavern with friends; he would rather be at her side through whatever befell them next. _Aeveth,_ not lyrium, the choice is clear, it has to be. Lyrium can’t offer him anything but Aeveth can, she can give him hope and support, kindness and friendship, a second chance, a place to call home and friends to surround him, maybe even love and a life lived quietly together.

Together. Cullen grasps the idea, gets it in a vice-grip, holds on _tight_ as Aeveth takes him away, step by stumbling step, from the lyrium stores. They pass the herb room, door still shut; Aeveth leaves the board and quill on the floor, never taking her eyes off him. It’s easier now to close his ears to the song and shunt it out of his head, easier because she thinks he can do it, believes that he won’t succumb to it again.

Cullen takes comfort from her strength, bolsters himself with it. His hands tighten on hers as his mind clears, and she gives him a small, tremulous smile.

When he can no longer hear the song, he pulls her close, enfolds her into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

She hugs him back, exhales long into the fur of his coat. Cullen can feel the uneven tug of weight in her cloak. Finally, she speaks. 

“That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always loved, appreciated, and replied to!


	3. In an Alternate Timeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m not saying that this deleted scene actually happened, but _hypothetically,_ if Cullen were to learn about energy manipulation, chakras, and qigong filtered through a Thedosian lens, then Iron Bull would be the one to educate him. _Hypothetically._ And then Cullen would take that knowledge straight to Aeveth for _In Flowers._ All hypothetical, of course.

“So, Cullen. Dorian and I were wondering.” Iron Bull leans over the long trestle table, one hand holding onto his mug of beer. “About you and the Inquisitor. How’s things?”

“They’re fine.” Cullen returns to looking at the paper in front of him, pushing a hand through his hair.

“That’s it? Just fine? Cullen, where’s the lurid detail?” Dorian sits forward, eyes alight. “Come now, we’ve gone through all this trouble to patch things up, you finally get together, and then nothing? Don’t be cruel.”

Cullen laughs softly, gives up on trying to figure out requisitions, pushes his paper away. “I am sure that nothing I say will ever compare to your experiences, Dorian.”

Dorian and Bull share a knowing look. “So what you’re saying is that you’re boring.”

“No-ooo,” Cullen says, drawing the vowel out. “I didn’t say that at all. I said things are fine.”

Bootsteps behind him; Cullen turns. It’s Krem, just passing by, holding two mugs. “Energy thing,” the lieutenant says, not looking at anyone as he walks away.

Iron Bull grunts, leans back, makes a woofling sound.

Dorian grins wickedly. “Trust him to up the ante. Yes Bull, how about the energy thing?”

“What about it?”

“I’ll wager the Commander has never heard of it, and needs a demonstration.”

Bull snorts, then guffaws, slapping the table. “Dorian, you just want to see Cullen sweat.”

“Guilty as charged.” Dorian turns his eyes to Cullen, lets them linger, takes a long, slow pull of his wine. “Entertain me, Bull?”

Cullen scowls. “Leave me out of it.”

Dorian laughs. “Cullen, why don’t you have a bit of fun? Look at it this way: Bull will show you something you’ve never seen before, and then you can show the Inquisitor.”

“I said we’re _fine_ ,” Cullen splutters. “I don’t need you two to teach me anything, thank you! We’re more than fine.”

Iron Bull sighs, then says patiently, “It’s not all about making her walk funny, Cullen. You’re more than adequate there. It’s about making the connection, getting her to trust you, seeing a side of her that no one else sees. _That_. Is important. So I ask again, Cullen, how are things between you and Aeveth?”

Cullen swallows, flushes a little, feeling uncomfortable with being put on the spot. On one hand, he doesn’t want to know; he’s confident in his abilities, and given how often she wakes up happy, he’s sure he’s doing something right. 

On the other, he’s… _intrigued._

“Since you seem to know the answer already, Bull, why don’t you tell me?” Cullen crosses his arms and gives Bull an expectant look.

“All right, I’ll bite. Physically, you’re fine, like you said. Mornings when she has the dreams, you come down separately. Mornings when she doesn’t, you come down together. She’s careful about how she walks, but her gait is just a little wider, and she does this little smile thing when you look away. _You_ just look smug.” Bull’s eye catches the firelight, twinkling. “It’s alright to look smug. If even she can’t conceal how good the sex is, then you’re doing a fantastic job.”

“Bull!” Cullen exclaims. He doesn’t know if he should be proud or scandalized.

“What? I just paid you a compliment. I make Dorian -”

Dorian clears his throat loudly, interrupting Iron Bull. “And mentally?” he cuts in, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

“You said lurid detail, Dorian.” Bull’s head tilts as he looks sidelong at the Tevinter mage.

“Not about _us_ , you lug. Stop smirking.”

Bull chuckles. “Fine, fine. Mentally and emotionally, there are still things to work out. You prefer to communicate through touch, and it’s easy for her to switch to your language. Talking is hard for the both of you, and it’s good to see you both trying. She may have started the conversation with you, but she needs to be more open if you are going to be the one person who can keep her from falling apart.” Iron Bull pauses, takes a swallow of his drink. “You do this energy thing, and she’ll open right up. It’ll be good for her.”

Cullen feels skeptical, at best. “You’re saying that I’m intimate too much with her, but propose more intimacy to force her to talk? I can’t say I’m comfortable with that idea.”

“No, it isn’t forcing.” Bull thinks for a moment. “Let’s say it’s more like relaxing her enough so that she’ll want to drop her barriers.”

“It’s quite liberating,” Dorian says.

“Maker send help,” Cullen returns. “From what I hear, you’re already quite liberated.”

“All the better. You now have testimony.” Dorian drains his wineglass.

Cullen sighs. “Andraste’s flaming sword. All right, show me. It can’t hurt.”

“Does that sound like consent, Dorian?” A smile, almost predatory.

“Yes it does, Bull.” A returning smile, less predatory, more anticipatory.

Cullen wonders uneasily what he’s gotten himself into.

Bull throws back the rest of his drink, stands up. He saunters around to the other side of the table, then takes a seat next to Cullen, straddling the bench. Cullen can feel the wood bend slightly as Bull’s weight settles on it. “Face me,” Bull instructs.

Cullen turns, swings one leg over. Dorian leans his elbows onto the table and rests his chin in one hand.

“Let me start by saying that the body is made of energy.” Bull scoots a bit closer. “It flows in and around your body in constant motion, in set patterns you can’t see. Some believe that if it’s disrupted, the body falls into chaos. But, conversely, if all the passages are open, then you can deepen your connection.”

“Connection to what?” Cullen asks.

Bull raises his hands, lets them hover on either side of Cullen’s head, about two inches away from his skin. “Anything,” he says slowly, voice low, half a whisper.

The mood shifts, grows serious, laden with intent. Cullen feels his pulse quicken, senses warmth emanating from Bull’s palms, along with a slight pressure he can’t explain.

“There are major points where the flows of energy meet,” Bull continues, floating his hands up and over the crown of Cullen’s head. Their eyes connect, and Cullen finds he can’t break the contact. Bull does something, and Cullen feels a light tingling over his hair. He shivers. 

“Here is one,” says Bull. “Feel that?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Bull knows full well that Cullen can feel it. Cullen stares at Iron Bull, fully captivated. He watches as Bull pulls his hands back, lifts the fingers of his right hand to his lips, exhales a hot breath onto his fingertips. Carefully he reaches out, strokes them softly down the center of Cullen’s forehead.

Cullen starts backwards, breath catching in his throat. The legs of the bench scrape against the floor. “Sweet Maker,” he says, trembling. “What was that?”

“Another one of the points.” Bull’s hand is moving down now, past Cullen’s chin, coming to a stop right in front of the hollow of his throat. “And here’s another. If you’re good at manipulating that energy…” At this, the corner of Bull’s lips twitches up. “...then you can push your own energy into the flow.” Cullen feels blood rushing to his head; the heat of Bull’s hand has increased, and something presses upon his throat. Cullen’s lips part, and he takes a breath, mouth open.

“You can also pull it out.” The pressure goes away, and suddenly, tension drains from him. Cullen tightens his hands around his thighs, not wanting to touch his neck, not wanting to give away how much Bull is affecting him.

“How many…” Cullen begins, then swallows. “How many of these points are there?”

“Seven.” Bull moves his hand down again to the middle of Cullen’s chest, raps lightly on his armor with a knuckle. “Heart.” Cullen’s breath stutters as he inhales, stutters again as Bull finds the next spot. “Solar plexus.”

Cullen can hear the blood rushing in his ears as Bull finds the bottom of his breastplate where it meets his underpadding, pushes a finger against the juncture of cloth and steel. It’s barely a touch, but Cullen experiences it as a jolt through his stomach, not unpleasant. “Sacral.”

He breathes evenly, trying to stay poised. “That’s six,” and Cullen’s voice is rough. “The last one?”

Bull smiles then, seductive. He leaves his finger on Cullen’s clothes, draws a line, indolent, down to Cullen’s groin, then past it, letting it rest against his cock. “Root.”

Cullen prays, prays that he won’t get hard, won’t show his arousal.

“Bull…” Dorian stands, and Cullen is thankful for the look in the mage’s eye. “Get up. We need to leave, now.”

Bull puts his hands in front of him, rests them on the bench. “Got all of that, Commander?” he asks, before he rises. “She needs this.”

Cullen nods mutely, watches as Dorian comes around to Bull’s elbow. “Pardon us,” Dorian says, a bit breathlessly.

“By all means,” Cullen replies, clearing his throat. He clears it again.

“See ya, Commander.” Bull’s grin is equal parts cocky and satisfied.

 _You glorious bastard,_ Cullen thinks. _Energy thing, indeed._


	4. In a Fog of Wine and Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never do a wine-tasting with Dorian. Never ask Skinner what she's drinking.
> 
> Takes place between chapters 4 and 5.

The clear bowl sits between them, empty, candlelight and firelight refracting through its glass sides.

Aeveth lifts up her wineglass, swirls it.  The deep red of the wine spirals around the bottom; plum liquid coats the sides of the glass lightly, drains back down, joins the rest, spirals again in a gentle maelstrom.

"Dorian," she says.  "I’m going to be sick tomorrow."  Excess was never something she engaged in at the Circle, but now that she and Dorian are friends, Aeveth finds it altogether too easy to fall into it.

Dorian’s lips press into a moue of distaste.  ”If you remember, I was the one who cautioned you against drinking whatever Skinner was offering you.  I can practically smell the booze from here.”  He takes a drink, swallows.  ”You’re ruining the delicate bouquet of the wine.”

Aeveth mirrors his expression, sticks her lips out to make it more pouty.  ”You’re one to talk.  You’ll drink anything.  Destination, not the journey, I believe those are your words?”

"I stand by them.  That doesn’t mean I cannot criticize someone else’s shit taste.  Like drinking that solvent, followed by this wine."  Dorian holds out his hand; Aeveth tips her glass back, then hands it over.  He picks up a bottle of wine from the row of five on the table, pours, covers the bottom, hands it back.

She accepts the glass with a frown.  ”Really, couldn’t you have picked one white?  Just one?”  Aeveth sticks her nose into the glass, then remembers that it has already held countless pours from the other four bottles.  She snickers at how ridiculous her attempts are.  Classiness?  They’ve abandoned it completely.

Aeveth inhales anyway, breathes in the lush velvet notes.  “Mm,” she says, doing her best impression of a haughty sommelier.  “Quite a nose on this one.”  She starts to giggle.  Setting the glass down, she puts her hand over her mouth, laughing into it.  Dorian tilts his head to the side, but as she continues, he joins her, and soon the two of them have laid their heads down on the table, tittering madly at each other over nothing at all.

"Why…"  Aeveth draws in a breath, holds her stomach, stares into Dorian’s eyes across the expanse of wood.  "Why are we…I don’t know what’s so funny."

Dorian’s short laugh shakes his entire body.  ”I don’t know either, my dear.  More wine?”  Without looking, he reaches up, grasps one of the bottles by its neck, rocks it side to side.  It sloshes.  ”Oh good, we do still have more.”

Aeveth lifts up her head long enough to down the contents of her glass, then slides it across the table for Dorian to fill.  He does so, upending the bottle over the rim.  As she watches, he finds another bottle, dumps the wine unceremoniously into his own glass.

"On the count of three?"  She pushes herself up to sitting, picks up the glass, hefts it in her hand, calculates the minimum amount of swallows to get it all down.

"Why not.  I’m too far along now to care that we’re ruining the experience of these fine vintages."  Dorian sits up too, grasps the stem of his glass.  "One, two, three!"

They throw their heads back and chug, watching each other, fish-eyed, through the bottoms of their glasses.  Aeveth finishes first, makes a face, covers her mouth, burps delicately, sways.  Maker, she’s drunk.  Sloppy, sloshy, whirly drunk.  If she isn’t careful, a stray hiccup could light her aura of fumes on fire.

"You know, Dorian, I… I wasn’t supposed… I’m supposed to tell you to dr… drink less," she says, then starts giggling again.  Dorian, drink less?  The notion is ludicrous.  “Now look at us.”

"Tomorrow," the other mage says with a careless toss of his head.  “Today, I’m too drunk.”

A new voice.  ”What’s going on here?”

It’s Thom.  ”Thooooooom,” Aeveth drones, then, “Thoooooom!”

Dorian waves his empty glass about lazily.  “We’re having a wine tasting!  Celebrating our safe return.  I’d invite you to join, but I’m afraid…” Dorian picks up each of the remaining bottles, testing them.  ”…we are out of wine.”

"A wine tasting?"  Thom’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at the squeaky-clean, incredibly empty spit bowl on the table.  "You understand that you are only supposed to taste the wine, not drink it all?  Andraste’s tits, how many bottles is that, five?  Between the two of you?"

Aeveth protests.  “Some weren’t all the way full when we started!  And I haven’t just had wine.”  She grins woozily, laughs to herself.  “Tried some of Skinner’s varnish stripper.”

Thom looks alarmed.  “Maferath’s hairy balls, you’ve had enough.  Can you even stand, my lady?”

"Oh no, none of the my lady business, please."  Aeveth doesn’t even try to rise.  "I can’t stand.  I’ll need to lean on you."

"Let’s get you back before you do any more damage to yourself and your liver."  Thom levels a disapproving glare at Dorian, who’s watching with a tipsy smile.  "You’re a terrible influence, Dorian."

Dorian cackles, and Aeveth joins in.  She says, “You’re one to talk, Thom, you and Sera take the Chargers on regu… regulrl…all the time.”  Thom holds out his hand, and she takes it, pulls herself up.  Immediately, the world tilts.

Thom catches her weight easily, puts an arm around her to keep her upright.  “First, my lady, we don’t mix wine and liquor.  Second, even I don’t touch that sorry excuse for a distillation.  You’re going to be sick in the morning.”

She knows.  “What’d I tell you, Dorian?  All your fault.  The meeting is going to be awful.”  She stumbles as Thom turns her, guides her out.  “Look at that… I’m walking the world’s most twisty straight line.”

Dorian watches, not moving, his hands gripping the edge of the table.  ”Good night!” he calls out when they reach the door.  ”Don’t tell Cullen I’ve been corrupting you again!”

Aeveth giggles.  ”Did you hear that, Thom?  Don’t tell Cullen, all right?”

Thom grunts.  “I’m sure he’ll know as soon as I turn up with you.  I’ll wager you’re leaving a vapor trail behind.  In all likelihood, you’ll still be drunk in the morning.”

“I cerrrrrtainly hope so.  Wouldn’t that make for a fun morning, deciding who lives or dies by the bottle?”  She chortles.  “Can’t blame the Inquisitor on this one, she was in her cups!  Someone else make a decision for a change!  Leliana!  You’re it!”

She wobbles; Thom’s arm tightens around her.  “Not her.  Tag Josephine, if you have to.”

“Oh, but Josie’s so nice.  Can’t have that.”  Aeveth tries to give Thom a devious look.  “But you’re biased, of course.  You like her niceness.  You pick her flowers, it’s the sweetest thing.”

“My lady,” Thom says, “I’d prefer not to talk about it, so if you could oblige me this once and black out, please do.”

“All right!”  And she promptly does.


	5. In Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little something for Valentine's Day. Set post-fic.

_"Strength, beauty, passion… in Orlais, the man who gave a thing such as this would have deep feelings, indeed." ___

__She finds the circlet of flowers lying on her pillow, deep red against pure white. Surprised, she goes over to it, picks it up, fingertips touching the velvety soft blooms. "Oh, Cullen," Aeveth murmurs, lifting the crown of embrium to her face, inhaling deeply of its sweet, soothing scent._ _

__There - her fingers touch something cool, a chain woven in among the stems. Curious, Aeveth picks at it, unwinds it carefully from the crown. It is a necklace, a strand of delicate, brilliant silverite links into which is worked a pendant of three orchids. A ruby, simply set, dangles from the center bloom._ _

__Aeveth lays it in her palm, the chain pooling liquid in her hand, and inspects it. It is Dagna's work without a doubt; the flowers are so lifelike as to be alive, and Aeveth can easily imagine a faint hint of their scent rising. She takes the crown in one hand, the other closing gently about the necklace, and walks over to the washroom to use the mirror. Her hair is shorter now, which makes braiding more difficult, but this time she won't make any mistakes._ _

__When she’s finished she inspects herself, turning her head to the left and right to see how well the crown sits. Pins, some pins would have been useful, but the crown is more or less secured, strands of her inky hair contrasting sharply with the dark green of the stems, the crimson of the petals. She gives her reflection a small smile and takes up the necklace, turns to descend the stairs of her quarters._ _

She arrives at Cullen’s office just as a runner is leaving, slips in through the open door. Cullen is sitting, actually sitting for once, but his air is unmistakably that of a man in charge, of _commander._ Confidence, competence, charismatic magnetism; Aeveth is drawn to Cullen, finds this side of his personality incredibly attractive. 

__He looks up at her and it all changes: his face softens, his shoulders relax, a gentle smile appears. Aeveth’s cheeks grow warm knowing that she is the one affecting him so, and she answers his smile with one of her own. She reaches behind her with her free hand, grasps the door, and backs up, shutting it._ _

__Cullen stands. “You look beautiful.”_ _

__“I had some help,” she tells him, a tilt of her head indicating the flowers adorning her hair._ _

__“Vile calumny. You misrepresent yourself.” There’s that voice of his, low and more breathy. Aeveth shivers as Cullen comes to her. He brushes the backs of his fingers tenderly against her cheek, tilts her chin up and gives her a kiss, lips pressing whisper-light against hers._ _

__She stares up at him then, wordless, held captive by his touch, just a finger beneath her chin._ _

__He smiles again. “I have to say it’s refreshing to compliment you without hearing anything in return. Can I press my luck, I wonder?” Cullen leans down, kisses her a second time. “You’re gorgeous.” Another kiss. “A vision.” Another, more insistent this time. “You’re radiant, and all things dim in your presence.” He kisses her, and she feels the barest touch of his tongue, parting her lips. “You are a balm for my heart.” Two hands now cradling her face, thumbs against temples, his mouth sealed against hers._ _

__She’s breathless when they pull apart. Cullen leaves only millimeters between them; she can feel his heat against her. “Cullen,” she says, and oh Maker, it’s so easy to kiss him. “Cullen, I came because I needed your help…” Aeveth takes a step back, shows him the necklace. “I’m afraid I cannot put your gift on by myself.”_ _

__“I’m happy to help.” He takes it from her, turns her gently, and Aeveth feels the touch of metal settling around her throat. “Do you like it?” he asks once the clasp is closed. His hands linger on the back of her neck._ _

__She puts a hand to her chest, touches the ruby. “I love it, Cullen. Thank you.”_ _

__His lips find her neck; Aeveth shivers again, arching into the contact. Cullen sighs, his breath a warm gust upon her skin. “As much as it pains me… later. I’ll see you later, for dinner?”_ _

__She nods, leans back against him, takes his hand and pulls his arm around her. She kisses his knuckles, then reaches for the door latch. “Sunset,” she says to him. “My quarters. Don’t be late.”_ _

__He chuckles, freeing himself, turning back to his work. “Dearest, I’ll probably be early.”_ _


	6. In the Selection Process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original "deleted scene," the scene I wrote as part of chapter 4. Ultimately I decided it didn't fit with the overall feel of the narrative and ended up writing the Cullen humming scene instead.
> 
> I did want to show Aeveth interacting with the Inner Circle though, so this scene has lived on, getting pushed farther and farther back into my notes. It won't leave me, so finally, I'm posting it here.

“My lady, I am fit and should be able to accompany you.” Blackwall’s voice, gruff.

“Are you sure? It wasn’t that long ago, your bruises aren’t all healed yet.”

“They’re healed enough, if you need me.”

A snort. “Stop trying to avoid me, Thom. Let me look.” The sound of feet scuffling. “I’m _serious,_ Thom, if you don’t hold still I will tell Master Dennet to hobble you, and I’ll strip you myself.”

“Maker’s balls, all right. As you wish.”

Cullen rounds the corner to the stables, his curiosity piqued. Blackwall is up against a column, his head pulled back as far as it allows, and Aeveth is unlacing his collar, face uncomfortably close to the man’s neck. Cullen halts in his tracks. “What in Andraste’s name…?” he says.

Aeveth’s eyes flick towards him. “Cullen! Just making sure Thom is ready to stand between my foes and me without falling over. I’d ask Cassandra, but Thom sits a horse far better than she, with much less complaining. And I can’t very well ask the Divine to come adventuring across Thedas.” Blackwall’s eyes look a bit wild as Aeveth pokes at him, his body language telegraphing clearly his desire not to be in a compromising situation. “All right,” she pronounces eventually, stepping back. “The bruises on your neck seem to be almost gone. What about -” She sets her feet suddenly and throws a solid punch right into Blackwall’s chest.

He grunts, doesn’t flinch. “I told you.”

A smile, flashfire quick, across her face. “I can admit when I’m wrong. I’m glad you’re better, Thom. We’re leaving in an hour, so you’d best ready yourself. There’s fresh bread and sausages in the kitchen.” She strides away, leaving Blackwall to put himself back together. 

Cullen follows her out. It’s true, Blackwall does look much better after his drubbing at Cassandra’s hands. “You’re leaving?” he asks as they walk. Aeveth hasn’t made mention of any upcoming trips, but problems had a tendency to wing suddenly into Leliana’s hands before being dispatched swiftly to runners.

She makes a noise of assent, turning to ascend the steps to the main hall. “There are some disputes in the Hinterlands that need to be sorted out. Reports of a rift, some bandits perhaps? Leliana said there wasn’t much to go on, but if there is a rift, I need to be there.” Aeveth halts at a landing, gives the next set of stairs a mournful look. “It never stops.”

Cullen hides his smile as he tries to figure out if she means the continuing problems in the Hinterlands, or the egregious amount of steps still left to them.

They make their way into the Great Hall, Aeveth only slightly winded. She makes a beeline for Varric, who is seated at one of the long trestle tables, head bent over a stack of vellum, quill scratching away. “Varric,” she calls out, and the dwarf looks up.

“Your Inquisitorialness,” he responds. “And Curly.” Cullen inclines his head.

Aeveth smiles affectionately. “We’re heading out soon, Varric, and you’ve the short straw. Forgive me for tearing you away from…” She peers at the top page. “...balance sheets.”

“However will I cope?” Varric stands, sets the quill down, begins cleaning up. “Who else do you have coming this time?”

“My favorites,” Aeveth says, teasing. “You, Thom, Dorian. We leave in an hour.” She begins walking away, letting her fingers trail along the edge of the table.

“What, Curly too?”

Aeveth stops short, turns on her heel. “No, but… Cullen, you’ve wanted to know what happens when I’m away. There isn’t anything pressing right now - don’t you start, I’ve looked at Leliana and Josephine’s reports. We won’t be away but a week. What do you think? Can you tear yourself away from your duties long enough to engage in more work?”

“Ah - no, I don’t -” he begins.

Varric interrupts him with a laugh. “Come on Curly, live a little. Don’t you want to leave all of this behind? Think about it. Just you and me, the Inquisitor and her band of friends, venturing out, slaying demons and helping the commonfolk. We’ll be out under the open sky, camping out at night. You could use a break.”

“Please, Cullen?” Aeveth gives him a hopeful smile and takes his hand. “It’ll be nice to have you along instead of having you pine away at Skyhold.”

Cullen can’t help himself, he grins. “I, pine? I do no such thing. In public. It’s unbecoming.”

“Quick Varric, get that down. It needs to go into the book.”

“It’s already filed away, your Inquisitorialness.”

“Excellent. Cullen, we can get you outfitted and kitted up in no time.” Aeveth’s looking at him now, assessing him; she drops his hand, puts her hands on her hips. “Leave everything to Rylen. He’s more than capable.”

He sighs, puts a hand to his head, drags his fingers through his hair. “I really shouldn’t,” he says.

“Don’t make me pull rank on you, Commander,” Aeveth says. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Varric’s delighted expression at the exchange, sees the way the dwarf purses his mouth.

“Fine, fine!” Cullen throws his arms up in mild exasperation. “I’ll go.”

Aeveth cheers, clapping once. “Splendid! I’ll get the requisition out right away. Why don’t you go up and start packing? I won’t be but a moment.” She grins at him, eyes alight, then hurries off towards one of the doors in the Great Hall.

Varric crosses his arms, lets out a deep sigh. “You just made her day, Curly.”

A thought occurs to him. “May I ask a question, Varric?”

The dwarf shrugs. “Go right ahead.”

“Why is it everyone has a nickname but Aeveth? You call me Curly; Dorian is Sparkles; Iron Bull is Tiny. Yet you haven’t given Aeveth any name but Your Inquisitorialness.”

Varric hmms, the sound rumbling, gravelly, in his chest. “I can’t really answer that, Curly.” Varric’s head tilts as he looks at Cullen, eyes regarding him seriously. “Hawke never had one either.”

“I...see.”

The silence settles around them, heavy, until Aeveth comes back.


	7. In the Stacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen thinks about the carnal things in life. NSFW.
> 
> Much love to GilShalos1, who had a hand in inspiring this drabble, and The_Goddamazon, who loves me enough to let me send her porny drabbles at 2am.

Cullen hides a smile every time he walks past the little library in Skyhold. It is, in his opinion, the best library in all Thedas, with the best collection he's ever laid eyes on. No matter that he's only ever seen the spines of the books and occasionally the covers; never mind that neither the desk nor the chairs have ever been used for reading.

Still, it's the best library. When Cullen walks by he thinks of smiles and laughter, hands reaching for shelves, hot breaths in his ear, Aeveth's arms and legs wrapped around his body. He recalls the distinct sound of the shelves bumping against stone as his hips crash into hers, the scratching of her nails against wooden ladder rungs as she holds herself up in an effort to help him. The delectable whimper she makes when he pins her to the wall of the hallway; the thump of her body and the whoosh of her air leaving her when he slams her onto the desk; the look on her face as she writhes beneath him, _yes yes yes_ hissing out of her, head lifting, then dropping back repeatedly with a muffled thunk; all of these serve to elevate his opinion of the room.

There, they can let go. Thick stone, rugs, and books absorb all sound. There, Aeveth is loud, _loud_ , louder than she has ever been, louder than would be allowed at the Circle, louder than in her bedchamber. There in the library she moans her pleasure, wails out the gathering force of her desire, her voice a shivering cry, rising and falling to the thrusts of his hips. Cullen loves to make the breath whine in her chest as she pants for air, loves to take her so strong and fast against all surfaces that she has no choice but to sob out expletives and come hard, screaming. Of gentility there is none, only a primal coupling, a slaking of need, a beautiful, powerful dance from wall to desk to floor, arms and legs tangling, breaths cutting the air around the sounds of flesh meeting flesh.

Yes, Cullen thinks as his feet take him past the door. He feels a rush of blood to his groin. It's the best library in all Thedas, no doubt about it.


	8. In Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring the long-term effects of prolonged lyrium usage.
> 
> Now an AU ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set about 15 years post-game.

Mornings: full sun warming the sheets, blue skies outside the window, a feather bed as deep as she could ever want, and Cullen asleep beside her, their hands linked, a peaceful expression on his face.

Aeveth smiles to herself when she looks at him, her heart full to bursting. She takes her free hand and caresses his cheek, draws a finger through golden hair shot through with silver. With her thumb she smooths down the laugh lines at the corner of his eye; she rubs the backs of her fingers against his jaw, her skin scraping gently across gray stubble.

"Cullen," Aeveth whispers, scooting closer to him. It’s high summer and they’ve got the bare minimum of sheets, and Cullen’s on his side with an arm flung loosely over her. Aeveth takes her lower lip in her teeth, her smile broadening, and begins tracing lines over his bare skin. She paints long, imaginary brushstrokes down his arm; she skims fingertips across the back of his hand and down to his fingers. 

She pauses briefly at the simple, unadorned silverite band on his finger, runs her thumb across its width before turning her attention back to him, flipping her hand over so that the return trip over still-corded forearms and defined muscles is made with the breadth of her fingernails.

"Cullen," Aeveth calls softly again, placing a kiss on his nose, on his cheek, on his forehead, where there are lines. They’ve deepened these last five years, and Aeveth remembers a time almost a decade and a half ago when they only showed up during times of stress. Even so, at forty-five, Cullen is to her the most attractive man she’s ever seen, who grows more distinguished and handsome as the years go on.

He stirs under her lips, breathes in slowly and deeply, rising to consciousness as only someone who has had years of peace can. Aeveth sneaks in one last kiss on his eyelashes before his eyes open. The brightness of the light in their little house turns Cullen’s irises a bold amber. ”Good morning,” she says to him.

Cullen blinks once, twice; slowly, a look of confusion settles onto his features. ”A dream?” he says, his voice sleep-hoarse. ”Your hair…you look older, my love. Is this a dream?”

Again, it's happening again. Aeveth bites down hard on her lip, but tears spring to her eyes regardless. "No,” she answers him; she feels wetness creeping across the bridge of her nose. "No, Cullen. Reality.”

"This isn’t Skyhold." Cullen rolls over onto his back and sits up, taking stock of his surroundings.

She chokes back a sob, more tears following in the tracks of the first. "No,” is all she can manage. By now it’s happened enough times that Aeveth can distill the information down to one sentence. ”The Inquisition is ten years done, and this is our house by the lake, the one you built for us a decade ago.”

"Oh." Cullen looks genuinely distressed at his inability to remember. He lies back down, takes her into his arms. Aeveth gulps air sharply, her shoulders shaking. The strong circle of his embrace does little to comfort her. 

"I’m sorry, love," Cullen murmurs into her ear. "Please, don’t cry. It’s just a dream. We’ll wake up soon, and everything will be fine."

Aeveth cries. They are both awake. Nothing is fine.


	9. In Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:    
>  To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.   
>  To know the pain of too much tenderness.   
>  To be wounded by your own understanding of love;   
>  And to bleed willingly and joyfully.   
>  To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;   
>  To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;   
>  To return home at eventide with gratitude;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy prompt from alierakieron turned into ... this. Set between chapters 16 and 17.

Aeveth’s had a rough day.

Cullen can see it as soon as he steps foot in the tavern. She is sitting at the long table next to Blackwall, watching Sera demonstrate something undoubtedly dirty. Cullen hears Varric’s laugh boom out of him; Bull joins in not long after, followed by Dorian. Aeveth, however, just smiles briefly, her eyes looking shadowed and tired in the paleness of her face.

There is an air of relaxed humor in the tavern, but somehow it doesn’t touch her. It’s her exhaustion, Cullen thinks. Her weariness sits heavy and thick on her like a barrier, warding off cheer, deflecting joy, surrounding her in an invisible bubble that keeps the bench clear on either side of her. Inside it, she is half-slouched, with fingertips tracing the rim of her wineglass, her chin propped up on one hand. The plate of food in front of her looks like it’s only had its contents rearranged, as if changing the presentation into a jumble will make it more palatable.

Cullen shuts the door behind him, pulls his gloves off, tucks them into his sash. Aeveth looks up at the noise and, after a second, gives him a slight smile. He can see the effort of it, can see how much work she’s had to put in just to get the side of her mouth to curve upwards. Another second passes. Aeveth tilts to the left, lifts a hand, crooks her forefinger at him in a come-here gesture, then motions to the empty bench beside her. Cullen approaches, and as he does, Aeveth raises a booted foot and prods Iron Bull in the hip. “Give Cullen some room, Bull.”

“No need,” Cullen says, and holds out a hand to Aeveth. “I think we’ll go upstairs.”

Aeveth cocks her head, curious. Bull, on the other hand, gives him a lewd grin. “Commander, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Cullen’s not sure if he wants to pursue the avenue of thought Bull’s offering him. “Nothing so base as what you’re thinking, Bull. I’d just like a quiet moment alone with my lady love.”

“Sweet talker.” Aeveth takes hold of his hand, pulls herself up, leaves her food and drink behind. “See ya, Bull.”

“Later, Boss.” At a word from Dorian, Bull claims Aeveth’s glass and hands it over.

Cullen leads Aeveth up the stairs, their feet thumping softly against the wooden planks. Behind them he can hear the strains of Maryden tuning her lute, and the metallic twangs of a hammered dulcimer being set up by some unknown musician. He draws her to the railing, sets his elbows against it in a casual lean. She mirrors his movements, then gives him a quick smile, her lips twitching up. “Thank you, Cullen.”

“You looked like you needed it.” Andraste preserve him, but she tries, and Cullen is glad of it. He is glad she is here, among her friends, and not elsewhere. “Were they on your mind all day?”

She sighs, looking down. “Not the entire day, no.” Cullen doesn’t need her to say anything else to understand her. What she really means is that she has been reliving her nightmares whenever she has a free moment, that as soon as she is finished with her task at hand, the thoughts will come back to pester her, dark thoughts and feelings that will swirl around her, prod at her, sting her mercilessly like gadflies.

It’s something with which he is intimately familiar, and Cullen does not envy her state of mind.

Aeveth glances at him; her expression is unreadable. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to burden you.”

“Aeveth, _never_ , you never…” He stops short, not knowing how to finish his sentence. Despite what they’ve shared, it’s a constant wonder to him that she continues to think of herself as a nuisance to him, and that is being charitable. Cullen grits his teeth against a pang of regret at the thought of his past actions. He had given her cause to doubt before, and it’s all he can do now to repent, start anew, build her trust in him from the foundation up.

“Mm.” 

One noise from her, just a little sound, and Cullen feels her pulling away, feels her dismissal. Frustrated, he straightens, grips the railing. 

Cullen grabs Aeveth’s hand suddenly, pulls her roughly into his arms. “You never have to worry about being a burden,” he tells her fiercely, growling the words into her ear. She is breathing quickly, back expanding wide and contracting narrow, her body stiff against his. Cullen slips his arms around her waist, buries his face against her neck, speaks truth into her skin, into _her_. 

“I love you, and you will never be a burden to me.” He hopes that between his words and his actions that it’s enough to convince her.

After a moment Aeveth settles, relaxes, melts into him. Cullen sighs long and relieved when he feels the touch of her lips against his jaw. 

Downstairs, Maryden begins to sing, and the sounds of dulcimer and lute float up towards them.

Bit by bit, Cullen begins swaying in time to the music, slow and gentle. His arms loosen, hands sliding down, his fingers wrapping around her hips in order to lead her. Cullen feels her smile against his neck. “I thought you didn’t dance,” she murmurs.

“I don’t,” Cullen replies, breath warm on her skin.

“Mm,” she says again, but it means something different this time. Gradually, her body grows heavier against his, and her head stills on his shoulder. Cullen’s grateful for the padding of his coat as he adjusts to her weight, holding her up effortlessly.

“Aeveth,” he says after a few more songs. “Let’s go. If there’s anything I know about you, it’s that you haven’t slept.”

She hangs onto him for just a moment longer before yawning, turning her face into his shoulder. 

He takes that to mean _yes, let’s go._ Cullen pulls himself away, laces his fingers with hers, and gives her a kiss on the cheek before guiding her down the stairs and out the tavern door, towards the Great Hall.

Her quarters are dark, illuminated only by bright moonlight coming in from the balcony doors, silvering the floor, leeching color anywhere it touches. Aeveth leans up against the bed to unlace her boots, and Cullen busies himself with the little things, like turning the bedcovers down the way she likes, and finding the correct drawer in her bureau with her favorite nightshirt. When he hands it over, she gives him such a look of affection that he almost stops breathing. The little things, he tells himself. It’s the little things that make her appreciative of him, the little things she trusts him to know that no one else knows.

Aeveth climbs into bed, pulling the covers over herself. Cullen hears her sigh, quiet and fluttering, as her body unwinds, the tension leaving her. He stays for a moment, watching her, is about to turn and leave when she speaks.

“Sss…”

Cullen has to kneel down and lean in to hear her better. “What was that, my love?”

“St...stay…”

He realizes with a shock that it isn’t a command or a declaration. Aeveth is _asking_ him to stay, is giving him a choice. She is allowing him, even now, to turn from her. He swallows. He is unworthy.

Cullen begins to unbuckle his armor.

“Stay... stay…? Stay…?” Aeveth continues to repeat it, half-asleep, the word hissing softly out with each exhaled breath, as if asking him is as important to her as the air that her body needs.

Cullen cups her cheek with his hand, his thumb falling tenderly against her lips. “You don’t have to ask, darling. Of course I will.”

She breathes out, comforted, and is asleep in seconds.

He pulls off his coat, undoes his sash, lets them drop to the floor. Carefully, Cullen takes off his armor, setting it at the foot of the bed; he releases himself from his arming doublet, shrugs out of his undertunic so that his upper body is bare. He goes to the other side of the bed, sits down, peels his boots and breeches off, swivels around and slides into his place beside her.

Aeveth doesn’t stir when he drapes his arm over her waist, his forearm coming to rest perfectly in the dip of her figure. Cullen sighs then, hopeful and happy. He prays that her sleep will remain uninterrupted until morning; prays that she will wake to him, content and at peace, and say yes when he asks to move back in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips._ \-- Khalil Gibran


	10. Questionable Chemistry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Vigils, in Haven.

They are alone, and it’s dangerous.

Aeveth can’t explain the feeling, but it hangs in the air, precipitous. Precarious. Like anything could tip it over, something as small as a breath; like something is just waiting, prepared, needing only a spark.

She and the commander are in the War Room together, and it is quiet. A muffled quiet, a dampened quiet, made that way by the thick stones in the chantry walls, the wide wooden door that cuts off sound from the outside. A stifling quiet: the air is tense, tangible, fraught, shivering every time Aeveth glances up and catches him looking at her.

 _Shit._ Aeveth is not one to swear, but it’s all she can think to do at this point. The commander is incredibly handsome, so handsome that she can’t even look at him without panicking and breaking eye contact. _Fuck_ , she is so distracted, she might as well think all the swear words, because the alternative is to think about those hands, ungloved so as to use the quill better, and that clever mouth, and that scar, and those golden eyes that send prickling nettles racing over her skin whenever his gaze lands on her.

 _Fucking shit, even._ She’s combining swears, that’s no good. The commander’s head tips to the side as he reads; his mouth moves, but he isn’t reading the words, he’s muttering commentary. “Ridiculous,” it sounds like, “absolutely ludicrous, asinine, preposterous,” and his apparent surliness is so endearing that she has to hide her face quickly behind her own board. Behind that pleasant countenance is a crabby and irritable man, and Maker, it’s adorable.

Adorable is not a word Aeveth tends to use when describing templars, even former ones, but there: Cullen is adorable. Between the deadpan delivery of what happened in Kirkwall and his faintly self-deprecating manner of referring to himself, she can’t help but think of him in a fond way. She shouldn’t, of course. Cullen is only recently an ex-templar, and those habits don’t break easily. To him she is probably a walking risk, an abomination guaranteed to happen sooner or later, and no matter the title, she bets he is waiting for that time when he needs to strike her down.

But the tables are turned now, and she, the mage, has the power advantage.

It’s so delicious that Aeveth almost wants to pursue the man, search for his weaknesses and puzzle him out, bring him to his knees and use him, just so she can say she, a mage, did to a templar what templars do to mages.

“Lady Herald?”

“Mm? Yes?” Aeveth tries to keep her face still but Cullen has walked around the table, he’s close, too close. _Shitfuck._ Her eyes practically fly back down to her board, and she clears her throat. “Yes, Commander?”

“This one was sorted into the wrong pile, it seems.” Cullen holds out a piece of paper folded into thirds.

She reaches for it. “Thank you.”

For a split second, both their hands are on the paper. For a split second, neither lets go. For a split second, their fingers brush together.

She pulls, deliberately does not look at him, because the merest touch - oh, the _electricity._ Aeveth has never believed such a thing to be true, has thought it a tired trope only fit for romance novels, but she has just experienced it: the shuddering of her nerves being set afire from that contact alone, the elevation of her heart rate, the tightness in her chest, the knowledge that there is an undeniable, unexplainable chemistry between them. Aeveth tucks the paper underneath the one already on her board, feeling the reverberations of his touch pinging all over her body; her cunt tingles and twitches even, Maker, what the _fuck?_ If she does not leave right this second, something is going to happen.

Aeveth feigns a yawn, starts it slow, stretches it out until it becomes a real one. “My apologies, Commander,” she says to Cullen, and busies herself with collecting the various missives addressed to her. “I fear I may be too tired to focus more this evening. If you’ll pardon me?”

“Of course, my lady,” he says smoothly, and somehow their eyes meet each other. Everything comes to a stuttering halt.

Dangerous. Him to her, or her to him, or both. It’s dangerous. They’re dangerous.

Aeveth opens the door and walks out, but she knows she will be spending the rest of the night thinking about that touch, about blond curls dark with sweat, about how his hips might move against hers, about how hopeless it was to swear off bedding templars when they seemed to follow her everywhere. Hopeless, that’s what she is; she should know better, but she wants that connection again, knows instinctively that he can kindle into flame her entire body, head to toe. And she wants to _burn._ She has never, before.

Maker, help.


	11. In Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set post-Eveningwear.

“Again?  They’re missing dinner again?”  Dorian frowns at the empty end of the trestle table, where Cullen and Aeveth usually sit.  The places have already been set for the weekly companion dinner; wine has been chosen.  It’s Aeveth’s favorite white.

Iron Bull shrugs.  “Aeveth said she had a lot of work.  I saw Cullen on the way here.  He told me sorry, that he was eating at Aeveth’s tonight.”

Dorian gives Bull a flat look.  “Eating.  At Aeveth’s.  Cullen said that.”

“Yep.”

There is silence for a minute.  The steady hubbub of the tavern continues in the background.

“Private restaurant - ” starts Dorian.

“Reserve only - ” says Bull, at the same time.

Dorian’s laugh starts as a snicker before it morphs into full-bodied guffaw.  Bull laughs as well, slapping his hand against the table hard enough to rattle the flatware.  After a moment, their laughter subsides.

Then, from Bull, “Bet Cullen licks the plate  _clean.”_

This time, it’s Sera whose laughter is loudest.


	12. In Strategic Discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! NSFW! 
> 
> Set post-Eveningwear.

Cullen bumps the War Table, and the pieces scatter.  They scatter over borders, pushing into places the Inquisition has never held; they roll into each other, clashing.  “Oh dear,” Cullen says.  “I can’t imagine how that happened.”

Aeveth looks up, mildly annoyed.  It’s just the two of them; Leliana and Josephine are long gone, their presence unneeded when it comes to strategic discussion.  “Was that necessary?  You know I have a hard time remembering where they all go.”

He comes around the War Table, saunters up to her slowly, a slink almost, prowling and suddenly very, very intense.  He’s been thinking about her for an hour, his mind running along two levels, and it’s taxing; he’d rather not be multitasking.  “I thought perhaps we could work on your memory.  It would be unseemly if the Inquisitor could not recall the holdings in the Bannorn.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes.  “Please, Cullen.”  Aeveth reaches out, picks up one of the Inquisition insignia markers, and places it on Redcliffe.  “There’s one.”

“Good,” he says, reaching out, laying a gloved hand against her cheek.  “What others?”

Her eyes flick over to him as she hesitates.  She picks up another marker, a small one, and puts it on the map.  “There’s a camp by Lake Luthias.”  Another marker, another spot.  “And here, sort of by the dwarf place.  Valammar.”  She pauses.  “And um, that keep in the south with the rift in it.  Dwarfson’s Pass.”

Cullen nods, steps closer, nuzzles her cheek softly.  He kisses her twice, for each right answer, first a brush of his lips on hers, then a flick of his tongue against the sensitive skin below her jaw.  “How many camps does the Inquisition have in the Hinterlands, Aeveth?”

“Ah,” she says breathily, her outstretched hand hovering above another overturned marker.  “Um… five?  Five.”

“Incorrect.”  Cullen nips her neck in rebuke, steps back.  “How many camps, Aeveth?  Think on it.”

She looks at him, her eyes wide, lips parted, the barest flush of pink beginning to stain her cheeks.  “Maker, Cullen,” she says to him, “I can’t -”

“How many?” he interrupts her.  “There will be a reward for correct answers.  It’s past time you learned these details.”

She shuts her mouth with a click.  The corners of her lips turn up in a wicked smile.  “Six,” she tells him.  “Six camps.  I miscounted.”

“Correct,” Cullen says, closing the distance between them.  He takes her hand in his, lifts it up to his mouth, and bites her fingertips gently.  “Mark them.”

She laughs quietly, incredulous, but does it anyway, rather inaccurately.  Cullen decides not to do anything about it.  Yet.

“Oh, here’s one,” Aeveth says then, picking up a large piece, setting it on the Fallow Mire.  “Two camps here, am I right?”

Cullen turns her hand over and presses his lips to the inside of her wrist, pushes the sleeve of her tunic up and kisses the scar over the vein of her elbow.  “Indeed you are.”

She grabs another marker, sets it upon Emprise du Lion, putting herself flush against him as she leans over.  “Four camps here, and one keep.  How interesting.  I find that my memory is becoming clearer.”

He pulls at her sleeve now, baring her shoulder.  With a sigh he kisses the skin there, mouths a path up her neck.  She stretches into it, and Cullen gives her an extra kiss for information voluntarily offered.  He’s close to her lips now; one more kiss is warranted.

Aeveth’s fingers wind into his hair.  Deliberately, she tips her chin down and stares into his eyes, a challenge.  She kisses him, lips closed, a peck.  Cullen breathes deeply in anticipation.

She kisses him again but this time it’s openmouthed, wanting and greedy.  Cullen gets both hands around her face, kisses back, and his lust uncoils within him, striking hot and fast, shattering the barrier of propriety.  He pushes her against the War Table, grinds his pelvis into hers, and she responds with a low moan, her hand reaching out, fumbling at the laces of his breeches.  Cullen groans as her fingers brush against his cock.   _Maker_ , he thinks, and pulls away from her, pushes her hand away, unlaces himself instead.

Aeveth is a flurry of motion as she gets her boots off, almost trips in her haste to get herself out of her breeches and smalls.  Cullen grins when they come back together; he grinds against her again, feels that she is already slick and ready.  It never takes long for her, really; Maker, but she is wanton, delightfully so.  She does much of the work for him: she sweeps an arm behind her, sending markers flying, spilling over the map and falling with a cascade of clicks onto the floor.  She lies down and spreads her legs, inviting, and rolls her hips at him seductively.

Cullen steps forward, grasps her around the waist with one hand, guides himself to her entrance with the other.  He sees her smile; she bites her lip and nods.  The smile disappears when he sheaths himself inside her velvet heat, quick and brusque, fast and to the point.  Her mouth drops open instead and a moan escapes it.  It’s one of his favorite sounds.

Cullen withdraws almost completely, and places his other hand on her waist.  He snaps his hips forward again, listens for her gasp, for the scrabble of her nails against parchment.  Again he thrusts, again and again, and soon Aeveth is writhing in front of him, breathing hard and keening, her hands opening and closing into fists, her legs wrapped around him.  He can feel her the contraction of her thighs, the pointing and flexing of her feet, the shudders of her around his length, small ripples to start with, growing stronger.  He can hear his own moans, his own panting breaths, knows that it’s soon now.  He gets his hands under her hips, hikes them up and jams her against him.

Aeveth wails and comes, spasming around him, rolling against the table.  Cullen comes too, thrusts into her deep, takes her over and over, stakes himself into her until she is crying out in rhythm to his hips.  He is the commander of the Inquisition, holds no titles or lands, but this - her, he will have  _her_ , he will plant his standard into her with his seed, he will claim her for himself alone. He will mark every inch of her with himself, know that when they leave his fluids will still be in her and on her, soaking into her smalls, dripping down her legs.

Afterwards he smirks at her as they pick up the pieces and set them back on the table.  Cullen places them swiftly, can see in his mind exactly where they go.  Aeveth gives up partway through, leans against the wall awkwardly and watches him.  “Inquisitor,” he says, voice smooth and calm, melodious.  “Care for another session tomorrow?”

“Yes, Commander,” she replies.  “I would love that.”


	13. In Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after _In Vigils_ 14.

Cullen has spent half his life afraid. Fear has driven him, shaped him for better or worse, informed his actions, stained his dreams. Fear of demons, fear of abominations, fear of magic, fear of himself; fear is by now a bosom companion, and Cullen is used to it, thinks himself inured to it, hardened against its adrenaline-fueled shaking, its wide-eyed hypervigilance.

He’s wrong, he’s so wrong. Here, sitting by Aeveth’s bedside, not knowing whether she’s asleep or dead, Cullen realizes he has been completely, unbelievably wrong. He’s more afraid than he’s ever been; he’s gasping and floundering with it, helpless, only able to watch her pale form swathed in blankets, waiting for the slight rises of her chest, always too far apart for his liking.

He sits facing the door, which is slightly ajar. From the outside he can hear vague shouts and curses as workers dismantle Aeveth’s quarters piece by piece, moving ruined furniture out, pulling up the stonework and masonry that she has destroyed in her half-lucid states. Beside him on the small bedside table rests a rack of lyrium potions, a decanter of water, a glass, and a vase crammed full of wildflowers.

It has been only eight hours or so since he emptied three lyrium potions into her mouth, his hands steady, purposeful. Cullen hasn’t slept since then. He can’t, not with emotions running this high, not with her lying colorless in bed, not until he has the reassurance of her waking. She has to, he reasons. He and Dorian and Cole got to her in time, managed to bring her back from the brink, hauled her bodily from the bed’s grip and onto the floor, averted what was sure disaster.

Cullen tells himself this in an attempt to make himself feel better, but it only serves to heighten his anxiety, make the myriad questions in his head multiply and grow. Questions branch from questions, divide and spread until there are so many of them that he can only think _why_ and _how_ without specificity. “Wake up,” he mutters, bowing his head over his clasped hands, penitent. She has to wake up because he has so much to ask, and she is the sole person with the answers.

But she doesn’t. Cullen lays his head down beside Aeveth’s ribs, takes her hand and threads his fingers between hers, closes his eyes and counts the seconds between each shallow breath she takes. “Wake up,” he says to her again, and this time it’s a whisper, an entreaty. She’ll feel his hand warm in hers, the smoothness of the sides of her fingers rubbing up against his, note the fit of his head against her waist, decidedly un-friend-like. She’ll get upset, Cullen reasons, because they still have not figured out what is between them, whether it has been enough time to try things again, whether they even can try things again. She’ll get upset, and it might fracture the already precarious relationship between them further. She’ll need to wake up to do that, though.

He’ll take it.

*** *** ***

When Aeveth wakes up she is empty-eyed, blank, her mind distant. It is worse than being unconscious, because she has previously been so vibrant and full of life, and this thing in front of him, staring unfocused at him, hollow-faced and ghostly, is just a shell of her. With her eyes closed at least Cullen can pretend she’ll be herself when they open. Now he must consider the possibility that she has done exactly what she wanted, and reduced herself to this.

This. Whatever this is. Aeveth eats but little, refuses to take more than a sip of water. Cullen and Vivienne work together to prop her up on pillows so she can recline. Aeveth only blinks slowly and looks straight ahead. “Cu - llen,” she croaks minutes after they finish. “Vi - vi - enne.”

“Yes, darling?” Vivienne is immediately at Aeveth’s side, one hand smoothing hair away from her forehead. Aeveth says nothing more, and her eyes roll a little when she tries to focus on Vivienne.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Cullen asks her then.

Vivienne shakes her head, a terse movement left, then right. “The magebane was extremely strong, Cullen. It is still interacting with her. Perhaps another lyrium potion would help. As for myself, no. She feels almost as if…” Vivienne turns her attention back to Aeveth. “My dear, can you reach the Fade?”

The answer is a long time in coming. “No,” Aeveth replies, her lips peeling open slowly, the word oozing out, falling heavily through the air.

Cullen turns away suddenly, puts a fist to his mouth. He can’t look at her, is unwilling to test his ability to hold back his anguish at what she’s done, at what he’s helped her do. If he looks at her he’ll have feelings enough for the both of them, none of them good. Behind him, he hears the cold glass slide of a vial being drawn from the rack, the pop of a cork being removed.

“Swallow, my dear.” The bedsheets rustle. Cullen risks a glance over his shoulder. Aeveth’s legs move weakly, kicking, as Vivienne pinches her nose shut and covers her mouth firmly with her hand.

“Maker,” Cullen swears, going to the bed, wresting Vivienne’s hands away from Aeveth’s face. Her eyes are opened wide. “Please, Aeveth,” Cullen says quietly. Both of his hands are cupping her face; his thumbs rest tenderly on her cheekbones in a miserable simulacrum of how he likes to kiss her. Blue liquid leaks from the corner of her mouth. It runs down her chin, rolls bead by bead onto his wrist. 

“Please, Aeveth. You have to come back from this.”

Finally, her eyes meet his.

Aeveth’s jaw slackens. A mix of lyrium and saliva dribbles out. It patters onto her sternum, slides in sluggish streaks past her heart.

*** *** ***

Day two dawns and Cullen comes to Aeveth’s sickroom in an ill temper, his fear having given birth overnight to anger and frustration. He wants her to go on, to keep trying as usual, and not defy life as she has done. He wants her to grow strong again, to regain her old vitality and joie de vivre, to come back and not leave him with an irreparable breach in his soul. He wants to grab her, shake her, tell her in unkind terms _how could you, how dare you, you would be my ruin_. The memory of his prayers replays itself over and over.

Dorian has somehow managed to convince her to take the lyrium, to eat and drink and move around a little. She is a bit more alert, Cullen thinks, now able to sit in a chair, perhaps follow the goings-on before her. Dorian addresses him as he stands in the corner, arms crossed over his chest.

“If you are going to glower in such a fashion, you are welcome to leave.” Dorian levels his own steely glare in Cullen’s direction. “You have every right to be upset, but not here, not in front of her. Save it for later, when she can actually respond.” 

Cullen doesn’t move.

“She is _sick_ , Cullen,” Dorian says to him curtly. “If you cannot contribute to her recovery then I suggest you get out, and do not come back until you can be of use.”

He watches Aeveth blink once, passive. 

And then he realizes Dorian is right. Cullen can’t do a thing for her so long as the rawness of his pain and guilt remains fresh. Not when the first words he wants to say are accusatory instead of loving and relieved, not when he wants her to know how deeply he has been shaken.

Cullen turns and leaves, and hopes he can return soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this but I'm glad that after several months, this has been written.


	14. Signature Elements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a first time for everything. Pre-Vigils. Desk sex.

The first time Aeveth has sex with Cullen, she knows she’s been right all along: he is fire and lightning, her signature elements. He is flame and spark, and everywhere he touches she burns and tingles. He is electricity carving her needle-deep; he is the wildfire igniting the slick between her thighs.

Each pump of his hips is a separate strike, grounding her straight into the wood of his desk. The thunder of her cries follows milliseconds later, bursting out of her, the soundwaves expanding sharply, bouncing off the walls. For a moment Aeveth thinks about childhood summers in Ostwick, how she was taught to count heartbeats between the bright light forking across the sky and the rumbling afterwards. With Cullen there is only the space of a breath, half a breath, not even; he is negative and she is positive, a lightning rod taking him in, the locus of the storm that is them, together.

They have been building towards this moment, intent and desire intensifying, billowing up heavy in the laden air, much like those storms. Aeveth has played her part with perfect timing, pulling back when she knows he’ll chase her, keeping their dance just shy of inappropriate, waiting for that inexorable moment when he’ll break. If the way Cullen first kissed her is any indication, she has reasoned, the breaking will be magnificent.

It is indeed. For all of her experience with templars she has never had one such as this. Cullen commands her body as if he has made a study of her, as if he has spent hours mulling over the best tactics of approach. He places his mouth and hands on the map of her skin as if he already knows it, rams himself home in her like a prophecy manifested. Cullen is hers as he was destined to be from the initial brush of their fingers long ago in Haven, and Aeveth exults in her triumph, revels in the urgency of his moans and the increasing tempo of his thrusts. They are a conjugation, he and her, present and continuous with each full-hilted plunge; they are singular turning plural, _I, you, us, we_. Cullen stokes her need, is the accelerant that has her running white-hot, and it won’t be long, she knows, not long at all before they reach the end, the beautiful, explosive end.

Like those storms it is over fast, but not before Aeveth has experienced the splendor of Cullen’s focus, his uncompromising devotion. She wonders during the still, rosy calm of afterglow if she has gotten in over her head, if she has created a hunger for him that cannot be sated. She craves the roaring heat of his skin, the coruscating jolts of his fingertips; she knows she would beg to be splayed so wide as to be profane, plead for his fullness inside her. 

Her leavetaking is gentle, sweet words and sweeter emotions, but when Aeveth descends the ladder to Cullen’s loft all she can think about is how she wants to unravel him. By words or by touch, it doesn’t matter. Aeveth has always loved puzzles, loved the process and the work, loved the satisfaction of answers, of perfect solutions. And Cullen is the turbulence beneath smooth waters, a tempting curiosity she must know in its entirety. He is the forbidden, and Aeveth will read him down to his soul.


	15. In the Future Imperfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we begin addressing longstanding issues. Post-Eveningwear.

Cullen is not afraid of sleep now, not with Aeveth warm at his side. It used to be that he’d fight it, push at it with shaking hands, trembling fists held against the mist of demons and ill-faded memories. It used to be that he would stare, look through the hole in his roof until the stars in the sky and the stars in his eyelids were indiscernible, fix his eyes upon the embers in Aeveth’s fireplace until he couldn’t tell the glow of coals from the pulsing, veined afterimages. Nowadays in the peaceable, resultant calm of Aeveth’s will, Cullen goes to bed gladly, embraces sleep sometimes even before the glow of the sun fades from the sky.

He has grown complacent during the respite, because when his dreams return, changed, he wakes shaken and unprepared, fear a knot in his chest that he cannot pick apart. Cullen no longer relives Kinloch Hold; the lyrium in him is down to such an infinitesimal amount it might as well not exist, and it is he who dampens the terrors. Instead he dreams of liquids dark pink and blue, her face, ashen and pale, eyes unfocused and unseeing, tosses and turns to the visions of two children, a girl and a boy, always running from him into unspeakable danger.

They are gentler dreams, not violent, yet Cullen reacts to them much the same. The Fade taunts him now with things that might have been and things that might be instead of things that have passed. Cullen has survived the past, and the knowledge strengthens him. It does not do much to assuage his worries for the future.

Aeveth is always there with a soothing hand when he startles himself out of sleep. Attuned to him as she is, she wakes easily when he begins to struggle. Tonight she is propped up on one elbow, her left hand anchored to his, the pressure comforting. Cullen gasps raggedly, his body jerking out of slumber in that disconcerting, upsetting way, but when he sees her, dark brown eyes illuminated with the silver of the moon, luminous with refracted light, he breathes out, and lies back down.

“Your turn?” she asks him, wry.

He closes his eyes. “I’m not amused.”

“Oh, Cullen.” He feels the brush of her hair against his skin when she kisses him. “They’re just dreams, nothing more. Those demons are gone.”

“Not demons.” Cullen forces himself to look at her. He cannot bring himself to talk about the magebane, cannot bring himself to break the unspoken agreement not to speak of it. The children, however. This is a subject he has never dared approach. 

“Children. Ours.”

“Ah.” She has nothing else to say for a moment. “Well, there are none, so you can rest assured that no harm will befall them.”

His heart in his throat, he asks, “There are none, but might… might there be some, eventually?”

Aeveth freezes so hard that he can feel the tensing of her muscles through the mattress. He watches her consider her words. “Would you,” she starts slowly, “be upset if I said no?”

When he was a templar the idea of having a family would have been impossible; when he left, he didn’t think he’d ever be in a position to consider it. But then there was Aeveth, and the house on the lake, and the promise of marriage. 

Cullen takes the space of an even breath to lock his feelings away. “Would you even consider?”

“No.” Her answer is swift and final.

He recoils slightly, taken aback. “Why?”

She gives him a long stare, her eyes narrowing. “Because I don’t want them. Because I don’t want to be a mother. Because I don’t want mage children.”

“What’s wrong with mage children?”

“Cullen, you cannot be asking me that question seriously, not with your history.” 

Aeveth makes to get out of bed, but he catches her wrist in his hand, holds her firm. “What do you mean, my history?” he asks her, an edge in his voice.

She huffs, tugs her arm sharply until she pulls free of him. “I know I remain the exception and not the rule, Cullen. I love you and accept what you are, but that does not mean I will accept your instincts or reactions to our children. So there will be none.”

“You don’t trust me?” Cullen sits up, arm braced behind him. “I would love them as any other, magic or no.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you would love them, just as I have no doubt you would send them to the Circle as soon as their magic showed. So no, I don’t trust you.” Aeveth reaches for the tunic piled on top of the bedside table, slips it on. She pushes wayward strands of hair behind her ears. “But the subject is moot. There are no children, nor will there be any.”

“Is that how you see me?” Cullen leans forward, captures her wrist again, more roughly this time. “As a templar still?”

Aeveth sighs, her shoulders sloping downwards. “No, Cullen. But we can’t pretend that our previous lives haven’t shaped us. I remember how you reacted to recruiting the mages. You didn’t like it when I built them the tower. There is no difference to you between an abomination and someone who is simply housing a spirit for a short time.” Her eyes meet his, unwavering. “You are a product of your training, as am I. I can make an educated guess about what happened in Kirkwall. Likewise, I am sure you have some ideas about what my role was in the Circle. I have never asked you for specifics, nor have I had any expectation that your opinion would improve beyond tolerating me.”

“Thank you for the measure of faith,” Cullen retorts sarcastically.

“You’re welcome,” she replies just as acidly. “Why would I ever want to subject a child of ours to that life, knowing that I’d be sending them to a prison? And you’d call it protection. What if Cassandra’s reforms don’t take? You wouldn’t condone a mage child being raised as an apostate. _Don’t_ , Cullen. You wouldn’t.”

He shuts his mouth, his throat working to swallow his protestations.

Aeveth’s gaze is hot as she continues. “So we’ll end this here, yes? I will not bear your children. I will not test your limits when it comes to magic. We won’t ask each other about what happened before the Inquisition, because I love you too much to want that knowledge. I’d hate to think you had a dearth of remorse.”

The silence hangs thick.

Finally, she lies back down, drawing the covers up over her shoulders, facing away from him. Cullen doesn’t move, remains where he is, processing.

He has to clear his throat before he speaks, comprehending now that his lover is layers upon layers contained, hidden. “I thought we agreed on no more secrets, Aeveth.”

Her reply is curt. “No more except these.”

Cullen lies down. They listen to each other breathe, awake, for a long time.


	16. Induction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some setup. Post- _Eveningwear_.

Michel de Chevin answers Aeveth’s summons in the late afternoon, well after the satiety of her large lunch has worn off, leaving her peckish and a little cranky.

“Your Worship,” the dwarven runner says, but Aeveth interrupts her with a look.

“Call me Aeveth, Liren.” The correction is gentle, even though she's had to do it several times.

“Aeveth,” the runner repeats, “Michel de Chevin has arrived, and is waiting outside.”

“Show him in, please.” Aeveth dips her quill into the inkwell, shakes off the extra ink, taps the nib on her blotting sheet. By the time she has finished signing her full name and title, Michel’s footsteps are sounding on the stairs. “Good afternoon,” she greets him, not looking up from her work. She blows on the paper to set the ink.

“Good afternoon, your Worship.” The thumps of his boots soften when he walks over the new high-pile rug in her quarters, the thickness of it deadening anything that falls onto it: books, armor, propriety. Aeveth glances up briefly and gestures to the single chair in front of her desk.

“Sit, if you please.”

His clothes rustle as he lowers himself into the chair. Aeveth blows once more, then folds the piece of paper cleanly in half, lining up the corners, the edges. If there was one thing she learned to hate while living in the Circle, it was papercuts.

“How have you found the Inquisition so far, Michel?”

“I have no complaints, Worship.”

“Good.” Aeveth holds out the piece of paper for Michel to take. “I’ve just signed your commission. Bring it to our quartermaster, Ser Morris. He leaves his post by the sixth bell at the very latest. Earlier if he wants to harangue the merchants. He does so love haranguing the merchants.” A grin flashes across her face. “You’ll have to endure his nattering, but he’ll take care of you. Just don’t ask about his work unless you want to hear about his clumsy attempts at playing the Game.”

Michel chuckles softly. “Your Worship, I will do my best.”

“See that you do.” Aeveth lays her quill down next to the inkwell. “From what Cullen tells me, you’ve already made a good impression among the younger recruits. He’d like to appoint you as an officer. I’m no military mind myself, so I am inclined to follow his lead on this. However, if you would like to give me some input on how we can best utilize your expertise, I am all ears.”

Michel leans back in the chair, places both elbows on the armrests, and thinks for a moment. Aeveth takes him in, notes the faint white scars on the left side of his face, one rising from cheekbone to temple, the other slashing through his eyebrow, interrupting it. He sits casually, the clean linen of his tunic falling neatly against his abdomen, but underneath Aeveth senses his coiled-spring readiness, the minor tense and ripple of his muscles. He is no longer Celene's champion, yet acts like he still has someone to protect. In Aeveth’s opinion, his abrupt dismissal from court rankles. Ten years he had served Celene, and would have served her ten more if not for it.

Aeveth wonders about it, about its specifics. Gaspard's words had carried with them the utmost respect, even in a passing mention; Leliana and Josephine found no stain on his honor, no action that would have lowered him in the eyes of his empress. And yet he is before her, disgraced, bereft of his title and station. Aeveth keeps her face blank as her thoughts turn over, linking themselves together, forming a conclusion. Michel has a secret, that much is for sure.

Aeveth loves secrets.

 _Not this again_ , she admonishes herself. The last time she went diving for the truth she ended up making love to it. She is done with secrets. She has to keep reminding herself of the fact. But secrets are power, and Aeveth has come to love the taste and glut of it, wholesome and satisfying, the most filling main course there is.

Michel's voice, already easy listening, made more serene by the lilt of his accent, breaks Aeveth of her thoughts. An asset, Michel de Chevin is simply an asset, a tool to be used to further the Inquisition. A puzzle piece that can be fitted in somewhere, another cog to slot into the machinery of her work. "I will perform whatever task you set for me," Michel is saying, "whether it is as an officer, an advisor, or trainer."

"The Inquisition is receiving some chevaliers for training purposes," Aeveth muses. "Might you wish to oversee them? Your reputation does precede you."

Michel inclines his head slightly, a delicate gesture for a man that tall. He is, Aeveth surmises, of a height with Cullen at the very least, likely taller, and solidly built. 

"If that is what you want, your Worship."

She catches the slight reluctance in his words. "Will there be a problem?"

"There won't, if there is no problem with me." 

So nonchalant he, but Aeveth has the feeling Michel won't hesitate to use his sword as a proxy for his point of view. He is fluent in the language of battle, as Thom is, as Cassandra is. "Well then," Aeveth says lightly, "perhaps I will engage you as a trainer after the terms of visitation have been reached. Is that agreeable?"

He nods. "Your Worship."

"You've been talking to Krem." Aeveth smiles. "He has the singular talent of using my honorific as a dismissal."

He has the grace to look chagrined. "My apologies. That was not my intent."

“How about this?” Aeveth slouches in her chair, gets the points of her elbows on her desk, rests her chin in the saddle formed by forefingers and thumbs. “My team is short a spot without Cassandra, and I cannot drag Thom everywhere with me without rest.” She observes his features when she speaks Thom’s name, waits for the twist of lips, a twitch of an eyebrow, the faintest wrinkle of his forehead. There is nothing but a flicker of recognition in his cornflower eyes, a brief and scuttling cloud over their surface. “The spot is open to you on a trial basis, if you want it.”

“You honor me, Inquisitor.”

Aeveth grins widely at the change. “The honor is mine, Michel. And I’ll have you know that no one in the inner circle calls me Inquisitor or your Worship. My name is Aeveth.”

“That will take some getting used to. Aeveth.” Her name sounds unfamiliar even to her, when he speaks it.

She shifts the weight of her head to her left hand, turns the palm of her right up, makes a beckoning gesture with her fingers. “I’ll need to change the terms of your commission then, Michel.” A pause, uncomfortable. 

Michel gives the paper back; Aeveth crosses a few things out. "I have a planned trip to the Hinterlands in a week. That should give you enough time to visit Master Dennet for a fitting, and move to your new quarters. Have you need of a new sword as well?"

"The one I carry - "

"- is red steel, if I remember correctly. We have some silverite ones that will serve you well. I’ll request a new set of armor for you, while I’m at it.” The scratch of the quill scrapes against Aeveth’s nerves; she’s hit the paper at precisely the wrong angle. She grits her teeth and finishes writing. “There. That should do it.”

“Thank you, your Worship.” Michel stands.

Aeveth sighs loudly. “You’re welcome, Michel. We’ll be gathering in the tavern tonight for Wicked Grace. You should join us.” A smile when she sees his reaction, this time slow and conniving. “Have you not played much? You haven’t, have you? Oh, this will be fun. Finally, Cullen won’t be the only naked one at the table.”

Michel’s eyes widen with alarm. “It seems the rules are different here.”

“Marcher rules,” Aeveth says cheerfully, her spirits lifting. “You’ll get it soon enough. Or so I hope. I’ll be angling for that commission of yours, if Josephine doesn’t clear you out first.”

“We’ll see about that,” Michel says wryly, turning to leave. “When do you start?”

“A candlemark after sundown. Will you go see Ser Morris now?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Until later, your Worship.”

Aeveth leans back, wiggles herself deep into the cushions of her chair. “Later, Michel.”


	17. Introspection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More setup. Post- _Eveningwear._

"You did well today, Michel."

Aeveth takes a seat next to him on the bench in front of the fire. The late summer air in the mountains carries with it a chill that nips, and the best way to stave it off is with roaring heat. Michel turns his head just enough to make eye contact with her.

"Thank you, your Worship."

Aeveth sighs and braces her hands on her thighs. "We've gone over this, Michel. You don't have to use the honorific. You aren't in that role anymore."

Michel lets the silence seep in, backed by the crackling of flames.

"Fine," Aeveth says once the air becomes too heavy. "It took Thom almost a year to stop calling me 'my lady.' I will have to extend that same patience to you, it seems." She casts a look at the breastplate laid across Michel's knees. His hands are roving over it, checking for nicks and dents.

"I wanted to say," Aeveth begins softly, and at that Michel's head comes up just slightly. "When you were in my office. When I signed your commission. I know it's hard to break habits formed by years. Maker knows I still have issues." She smiles briefly, then shakes her head. Michel's silence is encouraging her to speak. Or perhaps she's nervous, and wants to fill all the blank spaces.

"The Inquisition isn't just the Inquisition. Does that make sense to you?" Without waiting for his answer, she continues. "The Inquisition is about second chances. It's an opportunity to become...to become more than you are. More than this." 

Aeveth reaches over, raps her knuckle against the breastplate. It thunks hollowly. Michel's eyes widen a fraction. 

"Have you ever considered that, Michel? That you might be more than a code, or your honor, or the role you shove yourself into? That what you have been looking for may be defined by you, here in this organization?"

Aeveth lets out a great breath, stares up into the sky. Fingerling clouds obscure half the stars. "Everyone here has been transformed by it. Iron Bull is finally who he is, without the trappings of the Qun. Sera has a real home and people to call friends. Cassandra - she became Divine. All through the Inquisition. All through this...crucible." When she returns her attention to Michel, she finds he's staring at her.

She meets his eyes, unwavering. Her voice is soft, intimate. "Who will you be, Michel? How will you leave the shackles of your old life behind?"

He blinks, considering. "Did you do that?"

Aeveth purses her lips. "Leave my life behind? I try. Most days." It's gotten to the point where she can ignore the fact that Cullen still bears the flaming sword on his vambraces. "It's been years now since I've occupied this position. I spent a quarter of a century in the Circle, and I still learn something new about myself every day. Sometimes I wonder..." Aeveth lets her words fall away, suddenly embarrassed. 

"I'm sorry. This is about you, not me." She gathers herself and stands, then stretches, half-turns towards her tent. "Think on it, will you?"

Michel nods, the gold of his hair catching the light of the fire. "I will. Aeveth."

She smiles at him, is encouraged when he smiles back. "Good night, Michel."

"Good night."


	18. Inexhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Vigils, written for akaishinda at her request some time ago, just never uploaded to AO3 until now. Arbor Wilds aftermath.

Inhuman. That's what Aeveth thinks when a runner tells her that Cullen has returned to Skyhold. Inhuman, superhuman, thirty hours or more leading from the front, pressing the attack, standing in water crimson with blood, chunky with viscera, garish against the verdure of the Wilds. She shoves her feet into her boots and only gets them laced halfway before she loses patience. Aeveth jams the rest of laces inside, poking them in with stiff fingers, outlining her foot in strips of hide. When she descends the stairs, her soles tapping rapid-fire on the wood, the tongues of her boots flap and waggle.

Aeveth passes Thom and Cassandra on the way out, calls for them to join her in the courtyard, her voice a lingering specter as her body speeds ahead. It has only been a few days since her trip through the eluvian; she has not expected her advisers to return inside the week. But the three of them have made good time, excellent time, troubling time. Master Dennet will have choice words if their mounts have been ridden to foundering.

The portcullis is open but the air is silent, bereft of the shivering vibrations of the bells that ring for her arrival. Aeveth trots down the stairs and into the courtyard. Beyond, framed by Skyhold's great gate, are three riders, approaching slowly.

Thom and Cassandra flank her as she waits. Aeveth takes the time to finish lacing up her boots.

"Welcome back," she says to the three of them. Only Josie musters enough strength to nod and reply, the trill of her voice sluggish. "Thom, Cassandra, please help Josie and Leliana back to their quarters to get some rest."

"Inquisitor, the War Council -"

"- can wait another day, Commander," she says firmly. "If I had it my way it would wait a whole week, but out of deference to your work ethic, I will schedule it for tomorrow morning."

Cullen nods, his only defeat. "Very well then," he says once he has dismounted. Aeveth notes the whiteness of his knuckles when he clutches at the saddle. "I can see myself to my quarters."

"And risk you falling from your ladder? I think not, Commander."

"I would not - " A tremor interrupts him. He sags, just a little.

"If I let you go, what would we find in the morning, I wonder?" Aeveth keeps her words warm, playful. "Surely the commander of the Inquisition would meet his end in a more noble fashion. Laid low by a ladder. Such a shameful way to pass. How would you like me to eulogize you?"

Aeveth is both relieved and impressed that Cullen has enough left in him to smile. "Come now, Commander. You'll rest in my quarters tonight. I have no qualms finding a guest room to sleep in."

Cullen's eyebrows draw together; his eyes, though tired, show alarm. Aeveth speaks before he can even gather breath. "You there, recruit!" She addresses one of the newer faces standing around, lollygagging. "Commander Cullen spent over thirty hours in the van, fighting without sleep or sustenance. Would you say he has earned a rest in the best lodgings Skyhold has to offer?"

"Yes, your Worship!"

"There you go, Commander. You are a vital piece of the Inquisition, and I take care of my own." She beckons to the recruit. "Help the commander to the Great Hall. I will join you in a moment."

Aeveth leads all three horses to the stable, hands the reins to Master Dennet, passes through the kitchen to pick up stew before returning. Cullen is leaning on the wall next to her door, alone. Even now, she thinks, he won't stand down.

"I brought you something to eat," she says as she approaches. Cullen is too tired to react. She wagers he's spending all he has on remaining upright. "You shouldn't have sent away the recruit. I'm going to have a hard time helping you up the stairs."

"I will manage," he says, reaching for the door. Aeveth’s hand catches his, palms the smooth leather back of it, turns and pushes it away. Cullen’s arm drops back to his side.

“Allow me,” Aeveth says with a pleasant smile, and opens the door to her tower.

Somehow they make it upstairs; somehow Aeveth coaxes Cullen higher, counting down each heavy footfall. She flits ahead of him so that she can set down the bowl of turnip stew, now lukewarm, speeds back to him as he takes the last step, leaning against the railing. She staggers at his weight, bats away his murmured apology.

“Sit,” she says, maneuvering him to the couch. The furred coat comes off first; Aeveth lays it over the arm. “Stay awake for a few minutes longer, Cullen.” Gloves next, leather smacking on the floor.

His eyes fix upon hers, shadowed with exhaustion. Aeveth smiles faintly.

Cullen’s hands touch her face. His head tilts to the side by degrees. He traces the shape of her eyes with the pads of his thumbs, two strokes, up on a slight diagonal. When they come to a rest, she opens her eyes, turns her head to kiss the heel of his palm.

“Just a bit longer,” she whispers, and he nods, his expression blanking for half a second.

Aeveth stops tracking Cullen’s whiteouts after the fifth, works on relieving him of his armor, untacking him bit by bit. The distance between the couch and the bed seems insurmountable, but Cullen, having come most of the way, is determined. Aeveth can feel the last vestiges of his fabled willpower forming; he stands, straight-backed, and walks to the bed on his own.

“I’ll have someone bring you a fresh change of…” Aeveth starts, but doesn’t finish. Cullen is asleep.

Aeveth smiles again, stops herself from touching the new lines of worry etched into the corners of his eyes. That, too, can wait. She busies herself with gathering up his armor instead, intending to bring the battered pieces to Master Harritt.

She goes downstairs carefully, shutting the door with her foot. Cullen is secure in her bed; when he wakes, he’ll have all her amenities at his disposal. Aeveth smiles again, her mouth hidden by the vambraces heaped on his breastplate.

She turns her mind to other matters before her thoughts can wander any further.


	19. In the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post- _Eveningwear._

The Frostbacks that divide southern Thedas can create unpredictable weather patterns on either side of the range. In the summer the heavy, wet winds that rise off the Waking Sea push against that spine and curl into restless clouds. They churn helplessly as they are fed, darkening, bellies rounding out and distending with inevitable rain.

Cullen leaves his tower on one such afternoon, his hair frizzing instantly with the humidity. It’s unnaturally hot and oppressive even with Skyhold’s magic, and as he approaches the stables he thinks of summers in Kirkwall, steamy and stifling, the air like a thick soup. Idly he wonders if this is how fish feel when they breathe, the water a full-bodied press, straining through gills.

Aeveth is in the yard, barefoot and bare-armed, her sleeveless linen tunic translucent with the water that’s splashing out of the rain barrels. She’s filling buckets and setting them aside as Master Dennet leads horses from the barn. When she spies him approaching she pauses and smiles, just a second of teeth flashing in her face, and continues with her work.

“Aiding Master Dennet now, are you?” he says by way of greeting, standing off to the side, watching how beautifully her deltoids and biceps and triceps shift beneath her skin. The summer sun is kind to his lover, melting away the paleness of winter, turning her skin into a warm, touchable brown that brightens her eyes through contrast. Cullen holds himself very still when she draws near.

“I’ve nothing else to do today,” Aeveth replies, tucking a wayward strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. “I thought I’d make myself useful.”

He would reply, but a rumble of thunder interrupts him. Almost immediately he feels the first fat drops of rain on his head. Aeveth sighs, exasperated. “Just when I’d filled all these buckets, too.” She makes a face, puts her hands on her hips.

More drops begin to fall, and Cullen retreats to the shelter of the barn. Aeveth does not follow when the sky opens up, only turns her back to him and lifts her face to the pelting deluge. In seconds her hair is running with water. Her tunic plasters itself to her body.

“Come inside,” he entreats her, but she doesn’t move a muscle except to ball her hands into fists. Curious, Cullen braves the rain, endures the stinging slap of water that’s traveled the whole height of the sky. “Aeveth?” he calls out to her, wiping rain away from his eyes. The action is useless.  


“Aeveth,” Cullen says again, and touches her shoulder. When he sees her face he feels a stab of emotion through his chest. She is crying.

He folds her into his arms, places the point of his chin lightly on the crown of her head. Around them the world mutes and grays, silvers out. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs. It has been a long time since he’s seen her this vulnerable.

It takes her a moment to answer, and when she does, he is struck by how naked, how honest she is. It is rare, rarer than rare, to hear her this stripped down. “Ah,” she says, and when she breathes in it is the slow, deep respiration of the earth, the roll of mist off hot soil, the loamy rise of petrichor. “When I was in the Circle I always imagined how being caught in the rain might feel. The way wet clothes stick. How much I’d hate the squish of water in my socks.” She laughs, lifts a hand, wipes away her tears, laughs again at the futility of it. “As it turns out…I love this. I love it, Cullen, I really do.”

Cullen swallows. There is a growing lump in his throat. Sometimes he forgets that Aeveth has been in the Circle all her life, forgets that there are still so many experiences that are new to her. He forgets - and shame upon him for it - that there are hundreds of mages who share her story, who, if not for the rebellion, might never curse at the suck of mud on boots, or fall in love with the way birds sing before a storm.

He understands now why her sanctuary has no shelter.

His arms tighten around her, holding her fragility close. Soon the rain will let up, and she will gird herself once more in impenetrable layers. He kisses her on the forehead. The rain is sweet on his lips. 

“I love it too,” he tells her.


	20. Insalubrious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tie-in with chapter 12 of _After Life_. Aeveth is back in the laboratory again.
> 
> Insalubrious - adj. - unhealthy

Cullen knocks on the heavy wooden door of Aeveth’s laboratory. “Aeveth?” he calls out. It is later than late, so late that it’s early, early enough for the bats to return chirping to Skyhold’s belfry. There is no answer, so Cullen makes a fist, punches the soft side of his hand against the door, _thud-thud_. “Aeveth?”

From inside he hears the sharp breaking of glass against stone and a shouted curse. Cullen grabs the latch and pushes, forces his way in. Mist greets him, rising cold and foggy from the floor. It smells pointed and blue, polar, like the cut of air after snowfall. The floor itself is covered in ice.

Aeveth is standing in the corner, a circle of clear stone around her, but it’s obvious she’s the epicenter. Her hands are braced against a long wooden table; ice rimes her fingers, creeps in crystal fractals across the wood. For a moment Cullen thinks she hasn’t noticed him, loud as his entrance was. He can see the rise and fall of her back from where he stands.

“Cullen.” She looks up, her eyes dark with shadows unending, limitless in the depths of her exhaustion.

He picks his way across the treacherous floor, placing each step carefully and precisely. “You,” he says, words syncopated with his feet, “have been in here too long.”

It takes great effort for her to straighten, to push her hair away from her head. She flinches at the needling touch of ice, almost falls down with how much energy she’s expended in reaction. “No breaks,” she mutters. Her body stutters and jerks; she gasps, comes back to herself. “Wardens. Need this.”

“They won’t get it if you’re dead with exhaustion,” Cullen says quietly, reasonably. Fussing over her only increases her stubbornness, so he’s learned to state things simply. “Take a rest, come back to this later.” He finally reaches her. The rate of her breathing has not slowed.

When he touches her he feels her entire body quivering; in his arms she is shaking and fragile, a rattling leaf, a wet bird. “Aeveth,” Cullen says again, a little reprimand in his voice. “You’ve gone - ” He stops himself with a breath. “Will you come back with me?”

“So close,” she replies, and her body doesn’t melt into him so much as collapses like twigs of kindling, brittle and scattered. Cullen scoops her up, holds the pieces of her firmly, keeps them in her shape.

She protests. “Cullen, no…I just…” Her words run dry. She pantomimes instead, pretending to hold a flask in one hand. With the other she smashes something against it, then flicks her wrist. “Ice. No magic.”

“Tomorrow,” Cullen tells her, retracing his path along the floor. The ice is beginning to thaw, but he must avoid the shards of glass. “You’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Aeveth’s body sags; she leans her head on his arm in defeat. Her fingers pluck weakly at his shirt. “Let me walk.”

He tries to meet her eyes, but they are closed. “Please,” she whispers.

“Fine,” he says tersely, and sets her down.


	21. Inchoation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aeveth takes a breather from a night of dancing in the tavern; Michel de Chevin finds her amongst the snow and stars.
> 
> Posted on Tumblr a while ago, but I have decided to start incorporating some of that writing here.
> 
> Set between Eveningwear and Anacrusis. I will pretend it fits neatly into the timeline somehow.

The night is blessedly cold. 

Aeveth is grateful for it, leaning against the freezing stone of a crenellation, allowing the icy wind to dig slow fingers through her layers, to pierce her with a thousand needles, slap her out of her fantasies, numb her mind enough to make the visions appear sluggish and drained of color.

She exhales a feathery plume, lifts the hem of her heavy, fur-lined cloak to allow the chill in. She is still sweaty from all the dancing, even if her ears are starting to hurt. A blustery gust catches the corner of the cloak and yanks it wide open. The disrespect, Aeveth thinks as the heat flees. She pulls the cloak back closed, hops up and down on the snow-covered walk.

It’s no use. The warmth has been snatched away too quickly, and if she doesn’t get it back then she’ll catch cold. Or so the surgeon tells her; Aeveth thinks she’ll just be mildly frozen, but the surgeon is supposedly at the forefront of Thedosian medicine, and swears that extreme temperature change coupled with an imbalance of humors could sicken even Andraste herself. Aeveth purses her lips, smirking. As if she could ever be cold.

As if the fire and lightning in her could ever be snuffed out by something so mundane as a winter night in the mountains.

Aeveth can still hear strains of laughter along with flutes and drums from inside the tavern, so instead of conjuring flame, she dances. Aeveth closes her eyes and dances, her feet skipping over the powdery snow with its heavier layer underneath, her cloak and skirts flaring as she twirls, her unbound hair whipping into her face, light stings across her eyelids. There is a freedom to dancing by oneself, and Aeveth drowns in it, lifting her arms, her body weightless on another gust of wind. For a moment she’s flying, uncoupled from the earth, unfettered from its pull. Aeveth’s toes touch the ground; she rolls through the ball of her foot, the sole, bends her knee, leaps again, opens her eyes. She looks up, pressing herself into the dome of the sky, starlight her mantle, moonlight her crown.

“Had I known you to dance like that, your Worship,” a voice breaks in, and Aeveth startles mid-leap, bobbles her landing. Compacted snow crunches as she lands awkwardly and slips, sending a spray of powder into the air.

Hands grip her arms, steady her. Aeveth’s relief fumes out in a cone of rapidly dissipating steam.

“Had I known you to dance like that, your Worship,” Michel says again, a slight smile on his face, “I would have asked you to dance sooner.”

“And inflict upon you more squashed toes? No thank you, Michel. And you did not ask so much as assume.” The tavern had been a merry crush earlier thanks to visiting musicians, and Aeveth had done her share of stumbling over offended feet. Michel had steadied her then too, caught her up easily in his arms as she bumbled her way around the floor, laughed at her indignance at being handled in such a fashion. He had guided her through the steps to the pulse and throb of drums, of feet stomping in time. She could feel that heartbeat threading up through the bottoms of her boots as they danced, her body cleaved to his, learning the sequence through the shift of his muscles, their tight proximity.

“Your Worship,” Michel says gravely, though Aeveth can see the sparkle in his eyes. “My deepest apologies for the insult.”

Aeveth takes a step back once Michel releases her, eyeballs him with a slight frown. She is glad that Michel has found his sense of humor during his time in the Inquisition, although often enough the subtle irony of it is directed at her. She decides to ignore his regrets, knowing he doesn’t truly mean them. They have been in enough situations in the field to have refined their physical communication; being swung around in the tavern should hardly have mattered.

“Bull says he doesn’t mind, and I believe him. You and Dorian on the other hand, as well as Sera…”

He laughs quietly. “While it is true that your dance skills are not currently presentable, it seems that - “ A blast of air interrupts him, blows so hard at Aeveth’s back that it sends her cloak flapping. Aeveth puts up a hand to keep locks of hair from her face.

Aeveth detangles herself carefully once all is still again. “You were saying?” she prompts Michel, whose cheeks are dusted now with glittering snow, making his skin a map of stars.

“I do not mind the squashed toes.” His words hang suspended for a moment before drifting down, settling like sift onto the snow. “I cannot judge, as I am no dancer myself.”

“Better suited to it than I am, by far,” Aeveth tells him, her eyes leaving his as she attempts vainly to restore order to her hair. Just as she’s gotten it back in place, another blast of frigid air destroys her work. “Oh, Maferath’s wrinkly ballsack!” she snarls. 

Michel’s next gesture comes as a complete surprise. He reaches out, and with gentility and tenderness, directs windblown locks back to their places. His fingertips linger on her neck after he tucks her hair behind her ear.

Starfire. His touch is starfire, sparking into existence constellations of prickles over her entire body.

Aeveth shivers, drawing her cloak in close. “I should just go back inside,” she says over skirling snowflakes.

Michel inclines his head, unbothered by the cold when his cloak billows out behind him, sweeping out grandly. Not even a clench of his jaw, Aeveth thinks, that heaven-lit blighter. 

“Yes, your Worship,” he murmurs, extending a hand towards her. “Careful. The footing is treacherous.”

“I have you to blame!” Aeveth snaps, half-scowling.

“Your Worship finds fault with me yet again,” Michel sighs.

“The list is long, Michel.” Nevertheless, Aeveth picks her way carefully back towards the tavern. “But you may pay reparations by holding the door.”

Aeveth spies the brief, split-second twitch of Michel’s mouth; he’s hiding his smile. She grins at him in response. She enjoys seeing him surface past his stoic chevalier exterior, feels self-satisfied whenever his personality emerges. When he first joined them those glimpses were rare. Now, half a year into his official contract, he has relaxed into his role of companion, has formed friendships and forged respect from his peers, has grown comfortable enough to engage in a night of dancing.

Michel turns the latch and pushes the door open as she approaches. Just as she is passing him, however, one last gale slams into her side, sending her staggering. Aeveth loses her footing, falls into Michel with a soft cry. His sudden embrace forces warm air up from the neckline of his doublet. Aeveth gasps, her eyes going wide, her cheeks flushing with heat. Maker, he smells divine; he smells of summer and open fields, of bergamot and leather with a hint of cedar, of clear skies and sun-warmed grass.

“You smell amazing,” she exclaims reflexively, so struck that she forgets to be anything but herself. “Maker’s ass,” she swears immediately afterwards. “I’m sorry.”

Michel deposits her inside the tavern and shuts the door. The Chargers are singing rowdily and banging tankards upon the tables. “For what, your Worship?”

“Oh,” Aeveth says, her throat working. Michel unclasps his cloak and shakes it out with a snap. Aeveth inhales, hopeful. “Nothing.”

Michel drapes his cloak over his arm, waits for her to do the same. “Then nothing,” he says pleasantly. “Shall we return to the festivities?”

Try as she might, Aeveth will never match Michel’s effortless elegance. It is probably an inborn Orlesian trait, she thinks. She lays her cloak over her arm; wordlessly, Michel takes it from her, sets it atop his own. 

Aeveth sighs. “Yes,” she replies to him. “Though I think I am done with toe-stepping for the night.”

Michel turns her words, counters swiftly with his own. “May I have the next dance, your Worship?”

Aeveth laughs despite herself, begins descending the stairs, Michel a pace behind her. “Of course you may.”


	22. Inculcation, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera thinks Michel de Chevin is a colossal shit. She isn't wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to illustrate the development of the relationship between Sera and Michel. It's turned out about as well as I thought it might.
> 
> Set from post-Eveningwear to mid-Anacrusis.

The first time he meets Sera, Michel nearly takes an arrow between the eyes.

She draws faster than anyone he’s ever seen in his life. Her arms move, and it is like the bow materializes out of the air with an arrow already nocked and pulled back to her cheek. “What’s this about?” she demands of the Inquisitor, who puts herself in front of him. 

Not like it matters. The Inquisitor is a slender woman, and Michel has at least half a foot on her in height, is twice as wide as she is in the shoulders. If the elf shoots like she draws, the Inquisitor isn’t a deterrent at all.

“Sera?” the Inquisitor says, exceptionally calm for having an arrowhead leveled at her.

“What’s _he_ about?” the elf cries, those large eyes sparking with anger. “What’s he doing here?”

“Michel?” The Inquisitor glances at him. “He offered to join the Inquisition. I thought he would be more useful here than loitering by the red lyrium in Emprise du Lion.” She looks back at Sera, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Do you know him? Michel, do you know each other?”

“No, your Worship,” he answers.

Sera, though. “Not him, but I know of him.” Her arm is corded muscle and strength, and she keeps the arrow at a full draw without even a shake. Michel knows he is dead if she releases it. “Why’d you have to get a chav? They’re _shit._ ”

“He isn’t a chevalier any more, Sera.” The Inquisitor steps forward and puts her hand on the elf’s arm. The string eases reluctantly back to rest. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sera declares, and if looks could kill he would be dead and nestled in the Maker’s pillowy bosom. “He’s still one of them. A chav-lier. Doesn’t think the little people are even people. And this one used to fight for the biggest tit of them all.”

Michel notes Sera’s hand tightening upon the shaft of her arrow. “No longer,” he tells her. “I will not be seeing the inside of the palace again within my lifetime.”

“Sera,” the Inquisitor says. “He was protecting the villagers of Sahrnia from red templars when we met. We aided him in destroying an ancient demon. I thank you for expressing yourself, but Michel wanted a chance, and I’m giving it to him.”

The elf mutters, but stows her weapon. “If you say so, Inky,” she says to the Inquisitor.

Sera sidles near when the Inquisitor’s back is turned, her attention elsewhere. “You’re still a shit,” she half-whispers, half-growls at him. “Look at anyone funny and I’ll put an arrow straight in your face. Do anything to _her_ and I’ll arrow you in your bits as well. She’s too nice for you.”

“Miss Sera,” Michel begins.

“Don’t you Miss Sera me,” Sera snarls at him, then storms off.

*** *** ***

Michel settles in gradually, finding a routine little by little. With Imshael dead and his ties to Orlais severed, there isn’t much for him to do outside of whatever the Inquisition asks of him. The Inquisitor herself is almost always busy; outside of her nightly visits to the tavern and passing hellos, Michel doesn’t interact with her. At some point he will need some kind of official declaration of joining, he supposes. But for now he has a roof over his head and hot meals. It’s a sight better than wandering the Orlesian countryside, so he doesn’t complain.

He joins the daily morning melees, and this is where he comes face to face with Thom Rainier. Rainier is not as tall as he, but wide and stout and solid, an immovable object who stands in the center back to back with the commander, dealing hits which will bruise the less-skilled recruits under their padding. 

Michel is not at all ignorant to who Rainier is: mercenary, murderer, slayer of children. He holds his tongue, however. Michel is no longer Celene’s sword arm, and the Inquisitor has somehow pardoned the criminal, kept him within the circle of her confidence. Nevertheless Michel always opposes him in the ring, and the blows they trade come dangerously close to real ones.

Of course, Rainier is best friends with Sera. Michel adds a second name to the list of people who he should avoid. What he can’t avoid are the hardened biscuits Sera chucks full-armed at him from the roof of the tavern. “Shits in a barrel,” she calls down to him, singsong. Another biscuit comes hurtling down. Michel draws his sword in a blue-white flash of silverite, and the biscuit is smashed into powder.

“Miss Sera!” Michel raises his voice to just under a yell. He shakes crumbs from his sword, tries to shake the insult to his honor.

“Don’t you Miss Sera me!” she shouts back. “You chav-shit!”

“Face me then, if you so wish to air your grievances!”

“So you can stab me and call it right because you said so?” Sera stands then, and puts her body into the throw. Michel bats the biscuit out of the air angrily.

“Pissbag!” she hollers at him.

“I have done nothing to you!” he returns, his temper taking hold.

“Not me but the people who didn’t deserve it!” Sera whips another biscuit down; Michel sidesteps.

“I have no idea what you mean!” Two biscuits this time. Michel wonders how many she has in the basket.

Sera makes an inarticulate noise of frustration. “They’re not even people to you! Less than free, aren’t they? Just dirt!”

“Sera!” Iron Bull’s voice shatters the air. “Knock it off!”

A biscuit sails down and hits Iron Bull squarely in the chest. He stoops, picking it up, and lobs it back at her. “I said knock it off!”

“Stay out of it!”

“She has insulted me,” Michel says, teeth gritted. “Mind your own business.”

“No.” Iron Bull’s large hand clamps down on Michel’s shoulder. “You lay off too. Both of you!” he yells, looking up at Sera. “You want the sun shining on the ugly stuff, you do it right. Not out here where everyone will get a show.”

“She will not face me.” Michel rams his sword back into its sheath loudly.

“Yeah? Smart of her. Not so smart of you to let her get under your skin.” Bull folds his arms over his chest, then sends a baleful look up to Sera. She makes an obscene gesture and retreats back into her room.

Michel leashes his temper, blows off the excess in a hot plume of breath. He says nothing.

“Go cool off,” Iron Bull tells him.

“No need,” Michel replies tersely. “The elf will not goad me in such a fashion again. She is not worth it.”

“Yeah, well,” Iron Bull says. “Maybe that attitude is what’s got her pissed off at you in the first place.”

Iron Bull walks away, and Michel can only stare after him, bewildered.

*** *** ***

Sera’s laugh cuts like a hundred razors.

“Down with the commoners?” she taunts him when she spies him hauling loads of laundry to the washerwomen. “Inky’s got you doing chores? How’s it feel to be one of us?” She laughs again.

Michel tries not to grind his teeth. He doesn’t respond as he swings a sack of linens onto his shoulder.

“Bet you had servants for this, eh? Never got your hands dirty the clean way.”

Michel stops and gives her a pointed glare. “Have you anything for me other than the filth from your mouth?”

Sera cackles, flits after him as he makes his way down to where the washerwomen have a large tub filled with water from the river. “I’m just watching you get kicked down to the bottom. It’s nice.”

“It is no slight to my dignity to do as her Worship bids.”

“That’s how you gotta tell it to yourself? All right. You keep thinking you’ve got nothing to do with it.” 

He sets down the bag, then glares at Sera again. “What does that mean?”

“Stuff it. You lord it over everyone. You think being nice with the thank yous hides it, but you’re just a tit like all the others. Thinking you’re better.” She narrows her eyes at him. Michel realizes suddenly they’re a blue much like his. “That what they teach you in the fancy school? How to be an arse with a stick? Or were you born to it?”

“The Academie gave me my honor - “

Sera’s laugh is razors again, slicing his words in half. “You’re full of it! It’s shit, all of it. Can’t even think of everyone else as real people. You’re just down here because she told you to rub shoulders with the peasants. Won’t even think about who they are, just what they are. Guess what? People aren’t things.”

Michel bristles, thinking of his childhood. “Still your tongue, elf. You know nothing.”

“Oh, are you gonna call me a knife-ear now?” Sera rolls her eyes. “Thought there might be a real decent bit in you somewhere. Inky sees something I don’t, but she’s _nice._ Kind.”

“You are friends with Rainier,” Michel retorts. “You are in no position to argue.”

“Piss off with that. He’s sad about what he’s done. Wishes it never happened. Takes it out and looks at it and sads at himself every night. Not like you. You don’t even think about it. Beardy tries, which is a whole lot better than you could ever do. A sword is still a sword no matter how it’s wrapped up. A shit is still a shit, pretty words or no.”

Michel scowls. “Have you finished your lecture? Why are you here, if only to antagonize me?”

“Gloating. That’s what I’m here for. Your face, and gloating. See? Gloat. Ting.” Sera over-enunciates every consonant of the word.

“Gloat all you like. This is not my first time performing these tasks. Have a care to keep your tongue from flapping, lest I - “ Michel stops himself and takes a deep breath instead. “You know nothing of my life, and nothing of me. You will never understand the meaning of honor.”

“Shit on your honor. Your sort waves it in any direction they like so long as it works out for you. You’re the one who doesn’t get it, not like you would, being up there and all. Pretty title, pretty face, pretty bow to make it all neat so no one remembers how bad it all is.” Sera’s nose wrinkles; she looks as if she is ready to spit.

“What’s the point of this?” Michel demands.

Sera grins ferally. “Inky won’t let me shoot you, don’t know why. Can watch you squirm, though.”

“I am not squirming. It’s simply laundry.” Michel strides past Sera, returning to Skyhold’s main level.

She follows in his shadow. “Say, I have some things that need washing.”

Michel forces his annoyance to heel. “Then bring them, and leave me the peace of your passing.”

“Can’t. Too much. You’ve got to come up and get them.” There’s that laugh again.

“Fine.” Michel feels his eye twitch. “Lead the way, Miss Sera.”

*** *** ***

“Do you even know her name?”

“Pardon?” Michel halts, spies Sera leaned up in a shadowy corner by the door of the tavern.

“Her name.” Sera’s eyes gleam in the darkness.

“Does it matter?” Michel glances back to the serving woman on his heels. “Did you give me your real name?”

The woman laughs shortly. “No, ser.”

“Am I taking advantage of you?”

The woman laughs even louder. “Maker, no.”

Sera kicks off the wall, straightening gracefully. “He’s a shit, you know.”

“I’m not _marrying_ him. He can be a shit all he likes as long as it’s not to me.” The woman takes Michel’s hand to pull him away.

Michel opens the door and allows the woman to exit first. “Miss Sera,” he says politely, inclining his head. “She told me to call her Clarabelle,” he whispers, almost as a second thought.

Sera growls.

*** *** ***

The arrow hisses through the air and lands less than an inch away from Michel’s boot. He looks up from checking pockets and glares.

“Oops,” Sera says blandly. Then, casual as she pleases, she puts a second arrow right next to the first. The fletchings vibrate together, whispering _you’re a shit, you’re a shit._

“Oops,” Sera says again.

Michel passes his sword to his shield-hand, yanks barbed heads from the ground. Sera watches him as he approaches, her hip jutted out, hand and fingers splayed against the smooth leather of her armor. The dare is in her eyes.

“Miss Sera,” Michel says, trying not to growl. “You have misplaced these. Arrows are scarce in the field. Have a care with limited resources.”

If she is going to needle him for pleasantries, Michel thinks, then she can well choke on them.

She snatches the arrows from his hand. “Stop being so nice!”

Michel gives her a flat look. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean stop being so... polite!” Sera shoves the arrows back into her quiver. “You’re polite and you mean it but you’re still a shit and that...that...just stop! Argh! How can you do that? Doesn’t it hurt?”

He wisely keeps his mouth closed over the retort that wants to break free. Instead: “Does what hurt, Miss Sera?”

Sera makes such a loud, disgusted sound that Dorian applauds. He and Aeveth are standing some distance off, observing. Aeveth looks particularly intent, her large, dark eyes narrowed in thought.

“Being such a shit while being so proper and lordly. You really believe it! Not airs! Solid stuff for you. But you’re - “

“- a shit, yes, yes -”

“- such a shit, you should be stomping around like _rar rar, I’m a shit, I take what I want,_ but you don’t! You don’t even ask, people just do it! All you have to do is look nice and say things all soft and true-like and they do it! Look at Inky! You said the words like you believed them and she took it!”

“Sera.” The Inquisitor’s voice carries a warning. Aeveth, she wants to be called, though Michel still defaults to her honorific. He’s used her given name before, and each time it’s unwieldy and heavy in his mouth, clumsy. If he practices it will come all too easily, just vowels and soft consonants like his own. 

“Michel saved your life today. The least you could do is stop trying to push his buttons for a little while.”

Sera scowls. “Didn’t ask him to.”

Aeveth breathes in loudly, her fingers tightening on her staff. “But I did, Sera. Because you and Dorian are important to me, and Michel is the best person for the job today.”

He keeps himself from glowering at the Inquisitor.

“Could have brought Beardy.” Sera is defiant.

“Could have, but I needed Michel’s particular set of skills. Please, Sera. My options are limited. Learn how to work together. I’m not asking you two to be best friends. Maker knows that’s never going to happen.” She sighs. “Please?”

Michel says nothing. Aeveth’s entreaty is a surprise. She could have easily commanded them to work together, and Michel would have bitten his tongue and done it. She has the power to do whatever it is she wishes, but asks for it instead.

“Yes, your Worship,” he says.

Sera’s mouth twitches; her eyes narrow. “Just for you. You’re too friggin’ nice.”

“Thank you, Sera. Michel.”

He inclines his head, then glances at Sera. She looks away resolutely.

*** *** ***

The piece of bread catches him unawares on the side of his head. Michel jerks upright, the ale in his mug sloshing, his head snapping around, eyes landing squarely on Sera. “What was that for?” he demands.

“You,” she says, setting down her roll. It’s full of craters. “You’ve been less of a shit lately.”

He gives her the glare she’s so used to receiving. “And that warrants bread being thrown at me?”

“It’s late, you did piss poor at Wicked Grace, you’ve had the sourest puss.” She leans forward in her chair, elbows on knees, hands dangling. 

“That makes me less of a shit?” Michel stands, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. “Leave off.”

Sera snorts loudly. “I’ve heard the talking. They say you’ve been nice, coming down and helping without being asked. Now this. Something’s happened.”

“It is none of your concern.” Michel picks up his mug, intending to bring it back to Cabot.

“See, even that! What’d Inky do to get you to stop being such a shit?” Sera’s eyes are luminous in the dimness of the common room. 

Michel swallows. “Nothing. She did nothing.” Nothing except to tear down his defenses against her and confront him with things he’d buried long ago. He hasn’t been so thoroughly trounced in years.

“That’s shite. She did something. And you’re in a snit about it because you care about her.” Sera pushes herself up and saunters over. The light in her eyes is not wholly kind.

He glares again. It’s one of the only ways he can think of to ward the elf off. “I am not in a snit. Leave me be, Miss Sera.”

“Oh, now it’s interesting!” She giggles quietly. “You _do_ care.”

“I have a vested interest in my employer staying alive, if that is what you mean.”

“Don’t be stupid. Which you’re trying to be, right now, but you can’t fool me. You care about her. Have since she got you signed on with us.”

Michel sighs loudly. “Yes. She is a friend. Is this interrogation finished?” Truthfully, Michel is not sure how to handle Sera when they aren’t at odds. A respectful distance is what he has kept, but tonight Sera has crossed into no-man’s land.

“What did she do?” Sera slides closer. “Must have been big.”

“I told you, she did nothing.”

“Bull-friggin’-shit!” Sera sings out. 

“Will you leave me alone?” Michel growls, his hackles rising.

“What’d she do?” Sera asks him again, undeterred.

“Nothing!” Michel says, heated, then lowers his voice. “Nothing. It was not her. I told her of the initiation. She is aware that I am, as you say, a shit. She is displeased with me.”

“So that’s what it was.” Sera cackles. “Didn’t think you had it in you. She gonna kick you out, you think? Toss you on your arse?”

It’s too much to be borne. Michel stalks away before his temper grabs him, the handle of his mug clutched in his hand. Sera’s voice follows him, harries him as it always does. “Hey!” she calls out. “You think shit bounces if it’s thrown off a tower?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To answer Sera, yes, I do think this particular shit would bounce.


	23. Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is ever simple when Thierry gets involved.

“Thierry,” Aeveth says, her voice small. “I said simple. Simple!”

The tailor casts her a dismissive glance, then waves her off. “And you meant common. Basic. You are neither of those things. Why should your vestments reflect the lies you tell yourself?” Thierry snorts loudly, then smooths a finger over the corner of his mustache. His rings glitter in the afternoon sunlight.

Aeveth presses her lips together. “You sound almost like Michel. Is this an Orlesian thing, to speak the truth in such a bold manner?”

“Not at all, your Worship, or I would be a dead man.” Thierry shakes out his version of a simple dress, and the crystals sewn along the waist throw rainbow sparks over the walls.

“Must you all use the honorific as well?” Aeveth mutters.

“Yes,” Thierry says immediately. “Now, observe. You said simple, and I have given you simplicity. Elegance. You will be radiant, your Worship.”

“That’s exactly what I didn’t want, Thierry! It’s just Varric. We are meeting him in closed quarters, just the three of us.”

“It’s just Varric,” Thierry mimics her.

“Have a care with your tongue, tailor,” Michel warns him, striding into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Oh for the love of the Maker, relax.” Aeveth glares. “Thierry is a friend, and if he wants to mock me he can. At least here I won’t have his head off or his tongue out for it.”

Michel raises his eyebrows upon seeing the dress. “I thought you wanted something simple.”

Aeveth’s outburst is immediate. “I did!”

“It does not look so simple.”

“That’s what I said to him!”

Thierry huffs. “If you wanted to wear a sack then why did you call upon me?”

“I don’t want to wear a sack -”

“You are certainly acting like it!”

“She really does like it,” Michel assures Thierry.

“Of course she does!”

“I said simple, damn it! It has feathers and crystals and a bridal cloak!”

“A bridal cloak? But your family -”

“Naturally it has a bridal cloak, you said you wanted something simple.” Thierry sets the dress down ungently. “You may wear this over the dress as you ride through the streets, blessing the peasants with my handiwork.”

“Now you’re going too far, Thierry!”

“You cannot stand before the viscount of Kirkwall wearing whites better suited to a corpse, your Worship!”

Aeveth puffs up. “I never said I wanted a sack! I just wanted something simple that wouldn’t draw too much attention.”

“The day you do not draw attention,” Michel begins.

“Don’t you go any further,” Aeveth warns him. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

“Mine,” Thierry declares, “firmly mine. Ser Michel, your clothing is prepared as well.”

“Have you dressed me in crystals and feathers?”

Thierry barks a laugh, his dark eyes shining. “Maker, no. Did you want them?”

“Only if they could be sewn onto a sack.”

“You two are the worst!” Aeveth snaps.

“If you do not want the dress, your Worship…” Thierry picks up a garment bag.

“Put that down!”

Michel bursts into laughter.

“Stop laughing at me!”

Thierry looks smug. “I knew you would never settle for _simple_ , your Worship.”

“How,” Aeveth says heatedly, “am I supposed to get from Sanctuary to Viscount’s Keep without drawing the attention of less savory folk while wearing a dress that screams power and money?”

“It doesn’t scream,” Thierry says, miffed. “It declares haughtily.”

“She dislikes being perceived as such,” Michel reminds Thierry quietly. “Perhaps with a few changes it could declare humbly while displaying ostentatious levels of wealth.”

“Keep that up, de Chevin, I dare you.”

“I accept the challenge, your Worship.”

“You’re going to regret it later.”

“I very much doubt it, Aeveth, and I will continue to point out your dichotomous idiosyncrasies until you accept the position you occupy.”

“Big words, Michel. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I am not the commander, and can we not have Varric come here instead?”

“You leave Cullen out of this!” Aeveth growls. “And I can’t just ask the viscount of Kirkwall to take time out of his schedule to marry us in the privacy of my own house.”

“I am sure Varric would welcome the opportunity to flee his paperwork.”

“And the whole point of us going there is to avoid the household finding out!”

“Aeveth, if you think you can keep a secret this large from a former spy and the head of the Red Jennies…”

Thierry fairly cackles. “Are you sure you are getting married in the future? Are you not already married right now?”

“To this insufferable ass? Maker forbid.”

“You are lucky I have no feelings, your Worship.” Michel regards her gravely.

Silence.

“Point to de Chevin,” Thierry says. “Well played, ser. A bonus for her being speechless.”

“Orlesians!” Aeveth exclaims in exasperation, throwing up her hands.

Thierry turns to Michel and fires off a rapid string of Orlesian; Michel replies in kind. They both laugh. Aeveth grips her dress, looking from one man to the other, her eyes narrowing.

“You must be careful in how you manage your wife, Ser Michel.”

“Combine those words in that fashion again, and I will have no wife to manage.”

“I hate both of you.” Aeveth sulks.

“But you’ll wear the dress.”

“I’ll wear the dress. It’s beautiful, Thierry.”

“Thank you, your Worship. And the cloak?”

Aeveth sighs. “I’ll wear that as well. And find a carriage for us.”

“Problem solved!” Thierry says brightly.

Michel grins. “It is what she does.”


	24. Hesitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super rusty, apologies.
> 
> This is set mid- _Bloodsong_ , after Wren's first trial. Aeveth and Michel have a difficult conversation. Not their first, nor their last.

Aeveth wakes to the sound of controlled breathing, knowing before she even opens her eyes what Michel is doing, where he is in his practice. She listens to him as her body comes out of sleep, the rustle of his clothing and the pops of his joints at odds with the lovely warmth of their bed. There are more crackles now than there were before, but in his defense, Michel is over 40 and has seen more wear and tear than most in a life devoted to fighting.

She sends her awareness down to the floor, pulls a bit of the Fade into the glyph. The magic pulses once. Before she can even smile with satisfaction, Michel says, “Aeveth.”

She stretches, her own body a small chorus of creaks and cracks. The glyph helps her too. “Yes?”

“I appreciate it,” he says, his voice sounding strange on account of how he’s half-lying on the floor. “But it is not necessary.”

“I just like helping.” Aeveth yawns, then turns onto her side to watch Michel as he moves into his next pose.

He doesn’t respond, refocusing on his stretches. After a minute Aeveth gets up and goes to the washroom, rubbing at her eyes. By the time she comes out he’s almost done, standing tall next to the bed, his hands palm to palm in front of him in prayer, head bowed. Aeveth climbs back into bed, pulls the covers over herself, and waits.

“Is your schedule not busy today?” Michel asks after he’s used the washroom.

“Not busier than yours.” She pats the spot next to her. “Here.”

“That seems contradictory.” He goes to the armoire and opens it, shoving aside hangers of shirts, selecting one without hesitation. Aeveth knows it’ll be old and plain, a contrast to the finer shirts he owns, worn to fraying at the hem and cuffs, with faint, permanent stains that should have seen more vigorous scrubbing.

“You are so wound up when you come back on Wednesdays,” Aeveth says, patting the spot next to her again. “I thought I’d try to help out before you left. Besides, you don’t leave for a couple of hours.”

“That is true,” Michel allows, “but there is always time needed for preparation.”

“I’ll help you with that too.” Aeveth pats the bed again, more insistently this time. “I’ll even go with you and Hillas, if you’d like.”

“You need not trouble yourself.” Michel approaches the bed but doesn’t get back in, instead laying his clothes on the covers, reaching behind him to pull his nightshirt over his head.

Aeveth sighs, sitting up, stretching her arm towards him. “It’s no trouble at all. You don’t talk much about what goes on in the alienage. Perhaps I’d like to see for myself.” She snags his hand.

Michel lets her have it, smiles briefly when she kisses the slender scars adorning his knuckles. “My heart, there is little to say. We bring supplies for the elves, there is some trade, and sometimes we help with whatever is needed. Then we return.”

“I bet they love Hillas.” A tug on his hand and Michel comes easily, lowering himself onto the bed. Aeveth draws him close, then throws the covers over him.

“They respect her, in a way, and some revere her. She is not the first Dalish they have seen. Another used to live among them in the alienage.”

“Merrill.”

“Yes, her.”

“She no longer lives there?”

Michel closes his eyes, sighing through his nose when Aeveth fits herself to him. “She has not been seen in some time.”

“I wonder where she’s gone. She was supposed to be helping elves displaced by the war, but that was years ago.” Aeveth kisses Michel’s neck. “Varric might know. He keeps an eye on all his friends.”

“Be that as it may,” Michel says, then pauses to accept more kisses. “You needn’t come down with me.”

“And if I want to?” Aeveth asks, her voice muffled. “If I want to see you interacting with…” If she says _your people_ Michel will distance himself from her. “...the ones that you are honor-bound to protect?”

“There is little to see aside from what you might find at any common market.”

“Ser Michel de Chevin, the moonlighting merchant.” Aeveth smiles. “You think I wouldn’t want to see that? Being nice to people for a change?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I fail to see what niceties have to do with honor or being a merchant, the latter of which I am not.”

Aeveth keeps her smile on as he deflects again. “Let me have some fun at your expense, love, you do it to me all the time. And I do want to join you one of these days.”

Michel’s arms tighten around her, then release. “I cannot stop you from doing what you want.”

Telling, that. Aeveth pulls back to look at him. He meets her eyes steadily. “What’s wrong, Michel? You don’t want me to see you with the elves?”

“It isn’t…” Michel searches for words. “It isn’t pleasant, the alienage.”

“That isn’t a deterrent. I’ve been to Wren’s clinic in Darktown.”

“I would not put it on par with Darktown.”

Aeveth bites her lip. “That bad?”

“There is at least no chokedamp in the alienage.”

“So bringing some healing supplies with me would help greatly. I understand. We have plenty of potions in the stores, and I can always make more. They’re simple distillations.”

“Aeveth.”

“Or if I’m being too idealistic again, we have herbs and seeds should the elves want to make their own medicine.”

“Aeveth,” Michel says, warning creeping into his tone. “You are human, and they have little trust for humans.”

“Oh, and they trust you?” In times past Aeveth’s next sentence would have been cruel. But tearing Michel down serves nothing in this moment. “You’ve told them?”

He flinches so slightly that she would call it a half-blink if she didn’t know any better, then breaks eye contact. “I have not.”

“Does your previous point stand then, Michel? Do they distrust you?”

A brief glance back to her, and then his eyes shift away again. “It is easier to bear, having them not know.”

“My love,” she says, “that isn’t a yes or a no.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies, low. Then, more strongly, “It doesn’t matter whether they trust me or not. I do what I must.”

“It doesn’t matter to whom, Michel? You or them?”

She sees how she’s wounded him when draws back from her, inhaling slow and measured to stem whatever immediate response he’s feeling. Aeveth apologizes silently even as she touches Michel’s cheek with the backs of her fingers. She speaks softly, but the words weigh heavy in the suddenly crystalline air. 

“What’s one more human, then?”

He looks at her, pained, his expression full of emotions he can’t voice. Aeveth isn’t sure Michel knows what half of them even are. She shuffles forward until her lips touch his, breathes out a kiss as light and gentle as gossamer. She won’t break him, nor will she ever.

“Not today,” Michel whispers, his eyelids slipping shut. He holds himself still.


	25. Cooperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, another mini written to help procrastinate the midsection of the Thedosian Lunar New Year arc. Featuring Keeper! My thanks to thesecondseal for horse knowledge re: neck reining.
> 
> This takes place between chapters 23 and 24 of _Anacrusis_.

It gladdens Michel’s heart every time he sees the scene: Aeveth with Keeper in the pasture, relaxing in the grass, surrounded by afternoon sunshine. They’ve been down at Sanctuary’s auxiliary farm for a week and a half, and so far the weather has been Maker-blessed, raining only a little, staying unseasonably warm for winter. What was supposed to be a quick trip for the two of them to rotate out the horses has turned into a trip to spend time with her horse, complete with daily naps in the field. Not that Michel minds too much. It’s clear that the two need the bonding time after being apart for a year and a half.

Michel leans his forearms on the pasture fence, watching Aeveth sitting with her back against Keeper’s shoulder, idly stroking the side of Keeper’s face. Like this Michel could believe for a minute that Keeper is the sweet-natured darling Aeveth claims she is instead of the horrendously vain, temperamental demon Michel knows her to be. After a minute Michel corrects himself. Keeper is horrendously vain and temperamental most of the time. The rest of the time, she’s sleeping or eating.

Keeper grunts as if she’s heard his thoughts, and though he’s some distance away he can tell she’s eyeballing him. He does nothing, and after a moment Keeper sighs and lies all the way down, forcing Aeveth to shuffle away. She smiles, running her hand over Keeper’s chest before digging her fingers into the base of Keeper’s mane for some deep scratches, then crawls over to Keeper’s head to bestow perhaps the hundredth kiss of the day.

Michel gives the pair a few minutes before he picks up the basket by his feet. Aeveth notices him when he enters the gate and shuts it behind him, and as she sits up Keeper lifts her head as well.

“Stay down,” Aeveth murmurs. She smiles at him and calls out, “Is that for me?”

“Some of it,” Michel replies once he’s near enough to reply without shouting. He tilts the basket so that Aeveth can see what’s inside.

“Still trying to bribe her, are you?”

“Perhaps. She does have to be handled by people other than you.” Michel hasn’t forgotten how quickly Keeper turned on him after they arrived at Sanctuary. The leathers he wore that day have been ruined beyond repair.

Aeveth laughs. “Come now Michel, it was funny.”

“To you, I’m sure.”

“I had no idea she was going to roll on you in the pond, you know. I thought she liked you.”

“My heart, I had thought so as well, but we have both been proven wrong.”

Aeveth holds her hand out for a pear, which Michel places in her palm. She tilts her head, inspecting it, then takes a bite. “Passable,” she says, then gives it to Keeper, who eats it noisily.

“Aeveth,” Michel chides her.

“Should I have taken two bites instead?”

He sighs, then hunkers down and puts the basket on the ground. “I brought mints,” he says to Keeper.

“Oh, you’re really trying hard. I apologize on behalf of my horse.” Aeveth grins, then rummages around in the basket to find a mint for herself. “She must have hurt you deeply.”

“I am not taking it as personally as you think. I suspect she has little tolerance for anyone but you.” Michel extends his arm towards Keeper’s nose. She bumps him, then flinches away, snorting.

“Not even mints. She’s taking her role seriously.” Michel moves his hand towards Aeveth instead.

“What role?” she asks. The realization of what he’s doing flashes over her face. Aeveth breaks into sudden, loud laughter, slapping his hand away. He closes it before the mint can go flying, grinning. “You ass!” Aeveth yells, then laughs some more. “You’re such an ass, de Chevin!”

He barely contains his own laughter. “I believe the donkeys are in the next pasture over, your Worship.”

She slaps his fist again, following it up with more giggles. “Shouldn’t you be with them, then? Maker, Michel! I told you I wasn’t going to fight my horse to eat out of your hand!”

“I remember.” He chuckles quietly. “I was not sure if you did.”

Aeveth reaches for him, both of her arms moving. Her right hand grasps his, but her left arm remains suspended in the air. In an instant her good mood disappears, replaced by an angry scowl.

He guesses at her intention, bringing his hand up between them, opening his fingers so she can have the mint. Aeveth plucks it up and gives it to Keeper, who eats it without hesitation, then noses Aeveth for more. Michel nods once, his suspicions confirmed.

“Her role,” he says, answering her question from before, “is your protector.”

“I have you.”

“Yes, but her vanity puts her above even me. I would question it, but…” Michel pauses to address Keeper instead. “...one does not argue with a creature such as she.”

Aeveth purses her lips. “You don’t have to flatter her.”

“I am merely stating the obvious. Keeper is a war horse who weighs 85 stone and can crush my head with a single kick. She is frighteningly intelligent and knows it. She has also dropped me into a pond and attempted to drown me.”

Aeveth snorts, the corners of her lips turning up. “I don’t think she meant to drown you.”

Michel shoots her a frankly skeptical look. “I do not think you should doubt your horse’s actions. My heart, she knows that you’ve changed. She would have known the second you sat in the saddle. She is trained to do a specific job. This is an extension of her job.” 

He stands, picking up the basket. “We’ll need to do additional training to accommodate you. I will discuss neck reining with Seanna. With you here, it shouldn’t take long for Keeper to learn it.”

“Speaking of learning,” Aeveth says, pushing herself to her feet, “we’ve been working on something of our own. Watch this.”

Aeveth strokes Keeper’s nose, then climbs astride her back, angling slightly to the side. She grips a lock of Keeper’s mane, shifting her seat a little, and clicks. Keeper responds immediately, hauling herself up as smoothly as a horse can. 

“Good girl!” Aeveth praises her, leaning forward for a quick hug and pat. “What a smart girl,” she continues, her voice pitched higher, practically a coo. “My best girl.”

“Good girl,” Michel says to Keeper. She’ll notice if he doesn’t compliment her. “Well done to both of you. Have you been able to ride?”

“Just at a walk. I’ve already fallen off at higher gaits. I’m missing the saddle, but it’s…” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

“Then I think you should continue working on this skill.” Michel smiles faintly. “If Keeper is to learn neck reining, we will be here for another few weeks at the very least.”

Aeveth sighs. “I said I’d be back at Sanctuary days ago, Michel.”

“You have been enjoying yourself here, and Liren is more than capable of running the estate.”

“It’s true things are simpler here.” Aeveth returns his smile with one of her own. “Slower. Time stretches in a way it doesn’t over there. Oh, all right, you’ve convinced me. And I’d have more time with you.”

Time is what they need, Michel knows. The transition from long distance to close proximity hasn’t been completely smooth, though he’s thankful it’s gone as well as it has. He can’t imagine what state he’d be in if she’d turned him away after the Satinalia party. That had truly been a huge risk, no matter what Liren or Rylen said.

“I had little to do with it, my heart. And I confess the idea of just the two of us is one I welcome completely.” The dreamlike, long mornings spent dozing in Skyhold are some of Michel’s favorite memories. Thinking of them would tide him over during difficult moments in Val Royeaux. They’d fit back then in a way that eludes them now. Spending a month at the farm would afford them the space to rediscover each other.

Aeveth’s smile widens. “I’ll need to send a bird.”

“I will take care of it. You stay here with Keeper.” Michel stoops, leaving the basket by his feet. 

She beckons him over, her pointer finger curling and uncurling, and leans down to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, love.”

Michel nods. “I’ll see you at dinner.”


	26. Facilitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the original draft of the last chapter of _Anacrusis._ I wrote it right around chapter 14 or 15, which is uncharacteristic of me as I generally don't write out of chronology. I wound up breaking _Facilitation_ in half and putting part in 23 and the other part in 24. As you can see there's some stuff that didn't get solidified until later in _Anacrusis_ , so the endearments used are different. But there's some character development that I excised that I now think should probably be in the last chapter.
> 
> At any rate, here's the draft, and apologies to those who've already seen this. I've got new content on deck, I promise!

Things are different, Aeveth tells herself, and she just needs to adjust. She has adjusted to plenty of things. Kirkwall is a shithole, and she has learned to live with it. The house is too quiet without Bull and Sera around, but she tolerates it knowing they will be back. There are cracked roof tiles over the guest bedroom, and when it rains the water bleeds down the walls. There was a time when Aeveth would have tried to fix it herself, but now she must wait for Rylen to return from Starkhaven.

She has always been adaptable. She has always found a way to triumph over adversity. The Circle. The Inquisition and all the problems therein. Solas, in a way; Aeveth looks forward to seeing him again, will make sure he doesn’t destroy them all with his well-intentioned plans, will make sure that the world doesn’t crumble and fall into pieces, the way her arm did.

Aeveth sets the large pot on the counter, drags it carefully into the sink with her right hand. The last time she did the dishes she made such a clamor that the cook and her assistant came scrambling back in, worried she’d hurt herself. So Aeveth takes her time - she has adjusted, after all - and pours a bit of clean water into the pot, drops the bar of lye soap in, heats everything with clear intent and fire lining her skin.

She picks up a dish rag, crumples it into a ball, and sticks her hand back into the pot. If she scrubs too hard the pot will skitter around the sink, and it will result in nothing but frustration for her. She could lean down and push her stump against it to hold it steady, but decides against it. The pot is not in need of such vigorous treatment.

A swish and a swirl; grimy water splashes straight up into her face. Aeveth flinches and cries out, closing her eyes, reaching out with her left hand, groping for the dry rag she knows is just within reach.

Except there is no left hand, and the rag will never be within reach.

Aeveth’s right hand contracts into a fist. The water stirs, churning wildly, as she bows her head, takes deep breaths to keep from screaming. She cannot forget that her hand is gone, and yet she does it so easily.

“Splashed yourself?” Aeveth can hear the gentle smile in Michel’s voice more readily than she can hear his slippered footsteps behind her. “Hold still a moment, my lady.” Cloth touches her face, cleans away the water. Aeveth opens her eyes, still breathing hard, still shaking.

Michel dips a small ewer into the vat of clean water beside the sink, then takes Aeveth’s hand and rinses it. He prises the rag from her fingers, then dries her off. “Aeveth,” he says gently, and through her frustration she feels a little thrill. She will never grow tired of hearing him speak her name. “I know you want to be helpful, my lady, but perhaps tonight you can leave this task to the…” Michel pauses.

“Staff,” Aeveth finishes for him.

“The staff,” Michel repeats. “Yes. As you have said, they are not servants.” Michel takes her into his arms, his hands moving in soothing circles over her back.

“I only hire those who are willing.” She tries to let go of her emotions, but it’s no use.

“That is something I admire about you,” Michel says, and at that Aeveth tucks her head against the curve of his neck. “I know it matters little at the moment, but might I suggest you help in other ways? Tending the fire, or teaching sums to the cook’s young ones?”

All things that could easily be done one-handed, Aeveth figures immediately, and she scowls.

“You are frowning at me.”

“No, I am grinning with delight,” Aeveth says, her tone snippy.

“If that is the case, my lady,” Michel says, and damn his politeness and his courtesies, “let us depart from the kitchen for somewhere more pleasant. Preferably with a bed. Dinner _is_ over. I confess I am eager for entertainment.”

She smiles despite herself, but keeps her mouth shut.

Michel takes half a pace back, nudges her chin upward with the knuckle of his forefinger. His kiss is chaste and sweet. “Did I misspeak?” he murmurs once their eyes meet. “Or perhaps my lady did not hear me?”

He kisses the corners of her lips when they turn up. “Ser Michel,” Aeveth says, “I’m afraid it was the latter.”

“Oh.” His lips find her ear; he half-growls his next words. “My lady, the house is empty, you are beautiful and in need of distraction, and I much desire your company.” It is endearing, his smile framed in parentheses. “Was it clear that time?”

“Yes,” she replies, kissing his cheek, his stubble rough against her skin. “And yet it seems my understanding is lacking. I believe I’ll need clarification. Perhaps some visual aids.”

“I am a poor teacher,” Michel says, encircling her waist with his arm, pulling her flush with him, guiding her out of the kitchen and towards her room. Their room, Aeveth corrects herself. The adaptation is slow in coming, but she loves the process of it. Their room, she thinks again, it is firmly theirs, and their bed carries their commingled scents, heady and intoxicating. 

“The Academie did not school its pupils in pedagogy. I fear I am better suited to demonstrations and physical displays rather than eloquent speech and witticisms.”

Aeveth rests her head against the soft spot between Michel’s shoulder and chest, smiles to herself when she rediscovers the subjectiveness of the adjective. Soft is not a word she can use to describe Michel’s body, though he makes up for it in how he treats her. Soft is how he looks at her, how he holds her before they fall asleep. Soft is how he murmurs _my love_ into the depths of her heart.

“Need I remind you we are in the Free Marches?” Their strides sync as they amble down the long hallway to their quarters. “We are not Orlesian, to be swayed by pretty words. We believe in action.”

“Then, my lady,” Michel says gravely, his hand falling upon the door latch. The door swings open silently. “I believe we are perfectly matched, are we not?”

They enter, unmindful of the darkness. Aeveth does not need firelight to affirm what she already knows with fingers and lips and bared skin. She kicks the door shut behind them.

“Ser Michel,” she answers him as he begins to strip away clothing, “I believe we are.”

*** *** ***

Michel comes out of the bath to find Aeveth has lit all the lanterns in the room. She is sitting in a well-padded chair at her reading desk, a thick tome propped up on the angled surface. The tunic she wears is too large for her; Michel smiles to himself when he realizes it’s one of his. He takes a moment to observe her. She is beautiful even with her back turned to him, the lines of her body hinted at through the translucence of loose, firelit linen, her hair a cascade of inky strands over one shoulder.

He smiles again as he calls up the recent memory of her hair between his fingers, only half a candlemark faded. He’s pleasantly worn and emptied from their session, relaxed and happy after unraveling her time and time again with his mouth on her and him inside her. It never gets old watching how he can affect her, figuring out just how far he can take her to the edge, how loud she’ll moan when he sucks on her breast, how much she’ll arch when he grabs onto her rear just so and pulls her thighs apart. It never gets old seeing the wickedness of her smile when it’s her turn, or the sinuous roll of her body that tears profanity from his lips. Michel swears seldomly, but he’ll sin gladly for her.

He would do other things as well, has done other things. He's left the position of a lifetime and set all his hopes at her feet. He's learned to let go of the honor code that has governed him since his days at the Academie, although Aeveth would say he has done nothing of the sort. In truth Michel is more comfortable with a looser interpretation of it, although while he still served Celene that was not possible. He likes who he is now, simply a man dedicated to keeping the love of his life safe from harm, no matter the cost.

Aeveth sighs softly and turns the page, scratches idly at the stump of her left arm. Michel's chest twinges. The loss of her limb is a constant hurt, though Maker bless her, she tries her best to be optimistic. There were a lot of hand jokes in those first days when he was newly arrived, still in a daze that he was with her, that she would accept him back after he determined his duty to Orlais was worth more than his love for her. That she is no longer heavy combat capable is not a question; when he had received the news, he had known it was the beginning of the end of his service to Celene. Michel has few regrets, but not being with Aeveth as she defeated the Qunari and faced an elven god is one of them.

He could have been, he thinks, small though the chances. If Celene had attended the Exalted Council instead of opting to send a representative, he would at least have been present. He might even have been able to beg leave long enough to accompany her through the eluvians. He could have been the first to catch her as she stumbled through the mirror, the one to shout for a healer, the one to sit by her side as she was checked and re-checked. And then he would have seen her as she did the unexpected and felled the political forest with a single blow. He would have liked to have been present to witness her fury and her triumph.

Instead he remained in Val Royeaux, ignorant of the proceedings until weeks after the fact a letter with poor penmanship and even poorer artwork was delivered to his quarters. Whatever thin thread that held him to Orlais snapped then. Michel had drawn up his courage, and then his official resignation. The politics, the Game, the slums of elves he could no longer ignore, his true self, the inhumane treatment of the peasants, all of it was too much for him to bear once word reached him of Aeveth's suffering. She had sacrificed too much for him to stay in the palace. He had grown too much to keep his distance from her.

Now in Kirkwall with her, he is truly happy. Michel questions whether Aeveth feels the same.

Since her retirement Aeveth has become more withdrawn, more quiet. It is his understanding that she was always so, but the silences are more intense, the distance in her eyes farther than he can measure. Michel lets her have some of these periods to herself, knows that she needs the self-reflection. He does not panic when she pulls away from him. If she no longer desired him, he would expect to see his meager personal belongings on display in the front yard. He waits instead for those moments when she does not tense at his touch, does not turn her face from his lips.

He has spent hours laying with her on their bed, their arms and legs curved together, the low murmur of their voices interspersed sometimes with laughter or silence. Michel doesn't really need the words to know what bothers her, but they help. _I'm feeling bored,_ she might say, but it means she is annoyed at her perceived uselessness. He has to remind her that the constant activity of years past has skewed her expectations. And Aeveth wants to be busy so that she cannot be sad. He can't fault her for the sentiment.

Aeveth turns another page. Michel stirs from where he's standing, undoes the towel from around his waist, runs a hand through his damp hair. He goes to the wardrobe to select clean clothes, and by the time he is dressed he finds he has commanded Aeveth's attention, wholly and in full. Now it is she who observes him, a smirk curling her lips. Michel returns it.

"What are you reading?" he asks, going to her, bending down to nudge his cheek against hers.

"A draft of Varric's," she replies, glancing at it.

"Another _Hard in Hightown?_ The masses will rejoice. They have done well in Orlais." Michel squints in an attempt to read.

"Yes, ever since Varric had it out with his publisher and began distributing in Orlais, sales of his entire oeuvre have skyrocketed." Aeveth marks her spot casually and shuts the book. Michel quirks an eyebrow. "This is not the next in the series."

"Not for my eyes, then?" He straightens.

"Not yet." Aeveth lifts the hem of his shirt, bares the skin of his stomach, and presses kisses from hip to hip. Michel sighs, tracing two fingers over the shell of her ear before following the contour of her jaw all the way to her chin. He tilts her face up.

"Lady Trevelyan, you are insatiable."

"For you?" A smile. "Yes. The appetite is never quite whetted. But, what's this - the best living chevalier needing a break? What about the storied training of the chevaliers?"

Michel chuckles. "Our endurance is second to none, it is true, but I am only human. I will do whatever you ask because honor and your happiness dictate it. However, it will take me time to catch up to you."

"Only human," Aeveth repeats, her voice low, half-lost in the folds of his shirt. She resumes kissing him. "I know it's only a turn of phrase, but you say that so nonchalantly." She pauses, looking up over the expanse of his stomach and chest, and takes his hand tightly. "But it makes me think of your background. I love you for who you are, Michel. You being elf-blooded is no shame to me."

He blinks three times in quick succession, overwhelmed by emotion. "I know."

“Do you?” She nuzzles his hip and inhales. “Mmm. Do you, my love? Do you believe me when I say being lowborn means nothing, that blood does not dictate who you are? What matters to me are your actions.”

Michel takes hold of the chair with his free hand and turns it to face him, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. He drops to one knee in front of Aeveth and kisses her fiercely, his right hand slipping behind her neck, cradling the back of her head. Desperation, sudden and flooding, rises in him. "Aeveth," he breathes when their lips part. Her eyes are wide with surprise at his show of emotion. "I failed you. I failed you, and you have my deepest apologies."

"What are you talking about?" Her eyes search his. "How did you fail me?"

"I was not - I was not present for the important moments." He swallows, clears his throat. "I should have turned down Celene's offer. I should not have left you for two years. My heart, I should have been with you at Halamshiral, when you went through the mirrors. I have missed so much because I was doing what I thought was important."

Their faces are so close that their noses almost touch. Michel can feel the muscles in Aeveth's neck working as she breathes, the warmth of her lips but an inch from his. Her mouth is sweet. He wants to kiss her, in case she agrees with him.

"Michel," Aeveth says softly, "I did miss you. I have wanted all the same things. I wanted you at my side at all the negotiations and talks in the last two years. I wanted more than the moments we stole whenever I visited you. I wanted you with me in every battle I took part in."

His heart sinks.

"But," she continues, "do you know why I did not ask you to stay that night? Why I never spoke those words to you?"

"Tell me." Everything is so fraught, so tense. "Because if you had asked me to stay, I would have. One small word from you, and none of this would have happened."

She frees her hand from his tight grasp and brushes the backs of her fingers against his cheek. Without thinking, he leans into her touch. "Because," Aeveth whispers. "Because of what you did just now - how you reacted when I touched you. Because I knew you would stay if I asked, and did not want to rob you of your dreams. You always had divided loyalties. Orlais or the Inquisition. Orlais or me. I worried that if you chose me, your devotion to Orlais would eventually break us."

"No," he swears vehemently, "Aeveth, it would not -"

She traps the words in his mouth with a finger laid against his lips. "Hush, my love," she murmurs. "It would have. Like this, you have made your choice. You've tasted what you thought you wanted. And then you gave it all up."

"All that time wasted..."

Aeveth shakes her head. "No, Michel. Think of it as all the time we now have. There is nothing holding us back, do you understand? No other obligations other than to each other. There is nothing but you and me, and whatever life we create for ourselves. You have not failed me in the slightest, my love. Do not think of yourself that way."

Michel closes his eyes, closes the space between them, allowing his forehead to rest against hers. "You still have bad days," he says, the words accumulating against her lips. He waits for them to part so she can drink them down. "Can you be happy with me?"

"Michel, without you..." The barest hint of a kiss, heat caressing heat. "Without you, those bad days would be unbearable. I am beyond happy you are here. You didn't have to return. You did." Another kiss, her fingers tightening upon his cheekbone, his jaw. "You've made me happier than I can express."

"Aeveth," he barely manages to say, his throat swelling. "My love, my heart. That you are happy is my greatest joy. That I can be here with you the rest of my life is my only wish." Her big brown eyes are wide again, and Michel can feel her lower lip trembling. "Aeveth, will you marry me? I have nothing to offer you. No lands, no real title, none of the finery or extravagances you deserve. I have only myself, but..." 

He thumbs away brimming tears. "...I am yours, completely, if you will have me."

"Oh, Maker," she breathes so quietly he almost cannot hear it. "Michel, yes. Yes. Yes, I'll marry you, I don't care about titles or riches, you know that! Yes of course, Maker yes, sweet Andraste, yes, yes -"

Michel kisses her, giddy and lightheaded, keeps kissing her as he stands, laughs at the awkwardness of keeping their mouths sealed as they fumble towards the bed, kisses her as they sink down onto the mattress. He kisses her as he pulls her over him, kisses her as she extinguishes all the light in the room with a sweeping gesture, plants kisses on her chin, her shoulder, her arm, anything within reach as she gropes for the blankets.

"Did I mention," she says faintly as she shifts off him onto her side, "that I'm saying yes? Because yes. Michel, _yes._ "

He turns onto his side, throws an arm over her, and crushes her to him. She giggles when he lets go. "Yes to that, too."

Michel gives her a grin he knows she can feel but cannot see. "What was the question again?" he asks, cheeky, ecstatic.

"You ass," Aeveth laughs. "Will you marry me? That was the question."

"Yes," Michel answers immediately, right before Aeveth kisses him.


End file.
